Nemesis
by prophet87
Summary: Lex is back, and determined to destroy the Green Arrow. He enlists the help of a powerful ally, who succeeds in threatening everything that Oliver holds dear. A Chlollie story; sequel to "Lethal Obsession."
1. Chapter 1

Hi guys! As you can see, I've decided to go ahead with another story - can't believe this is number six! I'm so excited about this story that I just _have _to write it - I've got so many ideas in my head, I can't wait to turn them all into chapters. As with all of my stories, I can promise you lots of angst (and believe me, with this one there is going to be LOTS of angst!), lots of action, and above all, lots of Ollie!

This story picks up exactly where my last story, Lethal Obsession, left off. If you have not read that one, why not! Seriously, this is a stand alone story - all you need to know to understand it is that in my other stories Lex discovered Oliver's identity as the Green Arrow, before capturing and torturing him. Oliver eventually escaped, with the help of Chloe and the Justice League (the Season Six League - Bart, AC and Victor) - he then had Lex locked up in a Queen Industries facility, whilst the world believed Lex perished in a fire.

What else do you need to know? Well, this story, like my others, will have Chlollie at its heart. There will be a lot of League in this one, and some Clark. Hope you are going to enjoy it - here goes!

**Chapter One: Evil Resurrected**

"Lex is dead."

AC's words, said simply and clearly, left Clark and Oliver silent, stunned by what they had heard. The two men froze, each staring at their young friend; they half expected his face to crack into a broad grin, a grin that would signal to them that this was all some sort of joke. But the grin did not appear, and AC simply returned their gaze, patiently waiting for them to adjust to news which seemed almost incomprehensible.

Lex, the man who had threatened each and every one of them time and time again, was no more.

"This is some sort of joke, right?" asked Oliver at last, his eyes searching the other man's face for some hint that this was an example of AC's bizarre sense of humour after all.

"No joke, Oliver," replied AC, his features remaining sombre. "We found him in his cell yesterday. Doc says it must have been a heart attack or something."

"But why didn't you call us – let us know?" asked Clark, beginning to recover from the shock of AC's initial revelation.

"Hey, I tried, man – but Watchtower wasn't answering."

AC's answer made sense; the events of the last twenty-four hours had meant that Watchtower had been left unmanned.

"What happened? Did the doctor say anything about what might have caused it?"

"He couldn't say. Might have been brought on by stress, or maybe some pre-existing condition – too hard to tell."

Clark's features hardened slightly, AC's words raising suspicions in his mind.

"You didn't do anything to him, did you? Hurt him in some way? Because if you did..."

"Listen dude, I did not lay a finger on him, okay?" replied AC defensively, a hint of irritation in his voice. He knew what Clark was thinking, and it angered him; he might have hated Lex, baited him a bit whilst he was locked up, but in no way was he going to allow Clark to lay responsibility for Lex's death at his door.

"Easy, guys, easy," said Oliver, intervening to stop the rising tension between his two friends spilling over into a full blown argument. "Sometimes these things happen for no reason. Perhaps it's for the best, yeah?"

"_The best?"_ repeated Clark, incredulous at Oliver's words. "Lex was my friend, Oliver – don't forget that. He might have chosen to walk down the wrong path, but I know there was good in him. So don't ever say to me his death is "for the best," okay?"

AC and Oliver could hear the anger in Clark's words. They could see that he was struggling to come to terms with what he had been told, his complicated history with Lex making his response to Luthor's death more difficult to deal with.

"Okay, Clark – it's okay, really," replied Oliver quietly, trying to calm his friend before turning to AC. "What did you do with the body?"

"We buried him out in the woods to the east of Bateman – only four of us know exactly where."

"So he lies in an unmarked grave?" said Clark, his eyes widening in disbelief. "Look, I tolerated you locking Lex up without a trial – after all he'd done, I know you had no alternative. But this? This is just wrong."

"Listen Clark, we followed the agreed protocols," said AC, not realising that his words would make things worse, and not better.

"You mean you planned for this? I can't believe this is happening – after all you told me about how he would be looked after at Bateman..."

"He _was _looked after," interrupted Oliver, his frustration now showing through. "And AC did the right thing in burying him. What would you have us do, Clark? Give him a public funeral? How would we answer the questions from the press? From his friends? No, this was the only way, given the circumstances – the only way."

"Luthor was a murderer, Clark," added AC, trying to support his leader. "He got what he deserved."

"I didn't ask you," said Clark abruptly, before turning and striding off down the corridor. AC went to follow him, but Oliver held him back.

"Leave him," he said. "He's hurting, and he needs time alone to get his head round this. He'll be okay – just give him some space."

Both men stared after Clark's retreating figure. Clark's reaction had surprised them both, but as Oliver watched his friend disappear through the doors at the end of the corridor he remembered that Clark and Lex went back a long way. Oliver had long since recognised Lex for what he had become; a cold hearted killer, who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. Clark, he knew, still believed that something of the old Lex remained, the man who had been his friend for so many years back in Smallville. He couldn't see that Lex was beyond all hope of redemption; a naive position, maybe, but seeing the good in people was what made Clark the man he was.

"I didn't touch him, Oliver – I swear," said AC, clearly unsettled by what had just taken place.

"I know, AC, I know," replied Oliver, giving his young friend a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Why don't you head back to Watchtower – get some rest. I'm going to stay here with Chloe, just in case she needs me."

"Hey bro, it looks like you are the one who needs some shut eye," said AC, aware of the exhaustion that showed on Oliver's face. "I guess you wouldn't be up for a swap – I stay here with Chloe, and you go get some rest?"

"I'm staying with Chloe. I'll be fine – really."

The two men smiled at each other. They had been through so much together, they understood each other better than most brothers. AC knew that any further attempt to persuade his friend to take a break would be pointless; he would never abandon Chloe, not even now she was out of danger.

"Okay, bro – I'm outta here," said AC. "But if you need anything – you know where I am, yeah?"

"Thanks, AC – thanks for everything."

The two men exchanged glances; nothing more needed to be said. AC then turned and made his way down the corridor towards the exit.

Oliver now stood alone in the corridor. He paused for a moment, before stepping over to the window that was opposite to the door to Chloe's room. They were twenty floors up, and the window afforded him a magnificent panorama of the city, the skyscrapers perfectly illuminated in the warm afternoon sun. As he looked out over the rooftops his thoughts turned back towards all the times that he and Lex had clashed down the years, from their rivalry at Excelsior to Oliver's campaign against 33.1 and those final, desperate battles of just months earlier, when for a moment it appeared as if Lex had triumphed after all. It hardly seemed possible; finally, after so many years, the struggle between the Houses of Luthor and Queen was finally at an end. He never thought that it would end like this, however, with Lex passing away in the prison he had created to contain him. Somehow he had always thought that the end would be more dramatic, that they would cross swords one final time before good triumphed over evil. This – this seemed so prosaic, so anti-climactic. And as he stood there, staring out over the city that they had fought over, he experienced an emotion he had not expected - a pang of guilt. He didn't know why – perhaps it was the shock of his rival's death, perhaps it was Clark's reaction to the news, but he suddenly felt empty inside, as if something had died with Lex, something that was a part of him. It was crazy, he knew – Lex had tried to kill him, and his head was telling him AC was right, he had got what he deserved. But his heart told him something different, and for some reason he could not shake from his mind the image of Lex as he was at Excelsior; so needy, so desperate for acceptance. If he'd handled things differently all those years ago, offered him the hand of friendship rather than being the spoilt rich kid who thought it was cool to pick on the nerdy geek, then maybe things would have been different, maybe he wouldn't be standing here now...

Suddenly he turned away from the window, dismissing these thoughts from his mind. He couldn't go back and change things, so there was no point in dwelling on what ifs. Lex was dead, and a chapter of his life was over. He needed to look to the future, a future which promised so much...

He looked across at the door which led to Chloe's room. She was alive – that was really all that mattered. And now, with Lex and Jimmy dead, there really was nothing left to stand in their way. They had suffered so much, but still their love had survived; indeed, with every test it had grown stronger, not weaker.

He would make her his wife, and they would live happily ever after; this fairy tale really was going to come true after all.

* * *

Mike Wood moved hesitantly forwards, trying to follow the track with the beam of his flashlight. He'd walked down this path just hours earlier, but then it had been light; the thick canopy of the trees above had made that journey a gloomy one, but that was nothing compared to the pitch black which now surrounded him. There was a moon, but none of its light penetrated here; all was darkness, menacing and filled with foreboding. To Mike, it was an atmosphere that seemed all too appropriate, a metaphor for how his life had been turned upside down by the events of the last thirty-six hours.

His leg caught on a fallen branch, causing him to stumble a little. He cursed, and then heard the voice that he had come to fear so much in the previous hours.

"Careful there, Mike – remember, I promised to return you back to Nikki in one piece."

The voice belonged to a woman. It was measured, calculating, but not without a hint of mockery to it. Mike did not need to turn around to know that she was staring at him now, her eyes filled with a sense of detached amusement. This was all a game to her, of course – a source of entertainment. But there was nothing amusing about the gun that he knew was clasped in her right hand, trained directly at his heart; nor was there anything funny about the man who at this very moment held his girlfriend at knifepoint back at their apartment. No, this was no game – this was deadly serious.

Nikki's face flashed into his head. He thought of her beautiful smile, of the days they had spent together down by the lake. They both loved the outdoors, and this posting to North Dakota had seemed like a dream come true a few months earlier. They'd gone mountain biking together, exploring the wilderness and all the time growing closer and closer to each other. He was on the point of asking her to marry him, but that all seemed like another world now. As he continued to move forwards into the blackness the image of her smiling face morphed into something else, something far more terrifying; a picture of Nikki as he had left her back at the apartment, her face wracked with terror as the man who now held her captive pressed the edge of his blade against her neck.

His gut turned over as he recalled that awful image. How scared must she be now? It was all too much for him to bear, a nightmare that he wished would come to an end. Her life was at stake, and so he'd had no choice but to do exactly as the woman had told him to do. They'd done their homework, of course; they knew exactly what security clearances he had at Bateman, and how he was one of the few who had access to the most dangerous prisoners of all, Lex Luthor. And he'd done everything they'd wanted; smuggled the capsule into Luthor's cell, sounded the alarm when he'd suffered the seizure, helped Curry and the others bury the body out here in the woods. They hadn't suspected a thing, and Mike had to admit he could understand why; Luthor did indeed appear to be dead. But he knew only too well that the capsule that Lex had swallowed was no suicide pill; the fact that they were now out here in the dead of night only confirmed his worst fears. He was a part of a plot to spring Lex Luthor from prison, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Suddenly the beam of his flashlight fell upon a wooden stick, planted firmly into the ground. He halted, aware that his journey had come to an end.

"What is it? Why have you stopped?" said the voice from behind him.

"We're here," Wood replied simply, a hint of uncertainty in his voice; now that he had guided his captors to their destination, he had no idea what would happen next.

"Where is it? Show me," she demanded, now stepping in front of him, accompanied by the two men whose presence made any escape attempt impossible.

Wood gestured to his left. "Over there, about eight feet or so – you'll see where the soil has been moved."

The woman walked to the left, the beam of her flashlight allowing the others to track her movements. It did not take her long to find what she was looking for.

"Ridge, Taylor, get over here and start digging," she ordered, moving back to where Wood was standing, his body tense with fear and unknowing.

"Don't worry, Mike," she said. "It will soon all be over – soon you'll be back with Nikki, just like I promised."

There was something about the way she spoke, something dark and sinister, that made Mike's gut turn over. He had an impending sense that something terrible was about to happen, but he knew that he was powerless to stop it; the gun that the woman continued to train at his heart made sure of that.

It took the two men twenty minutes to dig out the coffin in which Mike, AC and the others had buried Lex just hours before. They prised open the wooden lid, before stepping back, and allowing the woman to take control. As Mike watched he could just make out her taking a syringe from her jacket, before leaning over the coffin. He couldn't see what happened next, but he could guess; whatever was in that syringe was some sort of antidote to whatever Lex had taken to simulate death back in his cell. Eventually she stood up, and for the first time Mike could see that she looked anxious, the studied calm that he had got used to replaced by genuine uncertainty. It was clear that she wasn't sure that this was going to work, and for a few brief seconds Mike hoped against hope that it would indeed fail, and that Lex would not wake up from whatever state he had fallen into. He was to be disappointed, because suddenly there was a rasping sound from inside the coffin, like a man taking a breath having been underwater for hours. Then, like some scene from a black and white horror movie, a figure suddenly sprang up from inside the coffin, eyes wide and unseeing.

_Lex Luthor was alive!_

Those who stood around all took an involuntary step back, even the woman who presumably knew that this most shocking of resurrections was about to take place visibly shaken by what she had witnessed. For a moment Lex sat bolt upright, staring straight ahead with unblinking eyes. The shock to his system had clearly been immense, and his body was taking time to adjust to its new surroundings, to its return from beyond the grave.

"Mr Luthor, it's me, Tessa – Tessa Cohen," said the woman at last, tentatively breaking the silence as she slowly stepped forward, offering Lex her hand. For a moment he did not respond, but continued to sit, statue-like, his face deathly white in the torchlight. Then, finally, his face turned, his lips curling into a smile that made Mike's blood run cold.

"Good to have you back, sir," said Cohen, returning Lex's smile with one of her own; the relief that she felt at that moment was writ large all over her face.

"It's good to be back, Miss Cohen," replied Lex, taking her hand as he made to stand up. There was something about hearing Lex's voice that seemed even more shocking than his return from the dead; it seemed so normal, just like Mike had heard it for months as he had guarded him in his cell. But now he was free, and he, Mike Wood, had helped to free him; one of the most dangerous criminals in the world, at large because of what he had done.

"And here is Mr Wood, the man who helped me to freedom!" said Lex, his eyes falling on Mike. "But I don't need to call you "Mr" Wood anymore, now do I? Not now I'm a free man."

"Look, I did what you asked. Now please, let me go - let me and Nikki go."

"I'm afraid we can't do that," replied Cohen, aiming her gun once more at Mike's head. "You see we've got an empty coffin here, Mike – and we need someone to put in it."

"Please...please..." begged Mike, recoiling from Cohen's dispassionate gaze. "I did everything you wanted...please! You gave me your word – you said I could see Nikki again if I did what you wanted!"

"But you will see Nikki again, Mike," replied Cohen. "She's waiting for you now – in heaven."

A shot echoed through the trees, and Mike fell to the ground, a bullet hole through his skull.

"Clean this up – I don't want any traces of what took place, understand?" ordered Cohen, gesturing to the two men. She then turned, to find Lex staring upwards. She followed his gaze, to find that he had found a crack in the forest canopy.

"A beautiful sight," said Lex, staring at the stars high above him. "In all those months I was in that cell, I dreamed of this moment – of smelling fresh air, of feeling grass beneath my feet."

"We never gave up searching, sir," replied Cohen.

"I know, I know," said Lex, not taking his eyes from the night sky."And you will be rewarded, Miss Cohen, I promise you – you will be rewarded."

There was silence for a moment. Cohen was eager to get moving, but she knew better than to try to rush her boss into anything; Lex was in charge now, and she was no longer the one giving orders.

"Curry? Where's Curry?" asked Lex eventually, turning to look at her.

"We're tracking him now, sir. He's returned to Metropolis – presumably to tell Oliver Queen about your untimely demise."

Lex smiled. How would Oliver be reacting to news of his death, he wondered? Would he feel any pang of remorse for what he had done to him? Lex doubted it – he doubted it very much. No – he would be feeling relief, relief that at last he had finally got rid of the one man who knew him for what he really was – a shallow, vain playboy, a man who thought himself the hero, but who in reality was nothing more than a terrorist. He'd be dreaming of his future, and how he and Chloe would spend the rest of their lives together.

_Enjoy your dreams, Oliver – enjoy them while you can, you smug piece of crap!_

For months Lex had waited for this moment, and now, at last, he began to feel the excitement that he had expected would accompany his first taste of freedom. Oliver and his pathetic little band of vigilantes had beaten him once, but they would not defeat him a second time. He had spent hours, days even, thinking of nothing else but how he would destroy them. Cyborg, Impulse, Aquaman – such pathetic, childish names, but how he hated them, how much did he want them to suffer! And they would be made to suffer, suffer in the most terrible way imaginable. Killing Curry would give him particular pleasure – sweet revenge for all the times he had had to stand and endure the surf boy's taunts and fourth grade sense of humour. Yes, the killing of Curry would be especially delicious – a long, lingering, painful death, so ingenious that Lex had surprised himself with his inventiveness.

And then there was Oliver – the Green Arrow himself.

Lex had lost count of how many times he had thought of the man who had imprisoned him during his long months in captivity. Every day, every hour, sometimes even every minute, the face of his adversary had filled his mind. Sometimes it was a memory of Excelsior, the raw recollection of how Oliver and his friends had rejected him; he had so desperately wanted their acceptance, but had been met with only indifference and ridicule. At other times he conjured up an image of the Oliver of today, the billionaire playboy who seemed to have it all; the looks, the money, the love of a woman who was utterly devoted to him. Time and again Queen Industries had outmanoeuvred LuthorCorp, leaving him the wrong end of a bad business deal whilst Oliver had walked away the winner, smiling that smile that Lex had come to loathe with all his being. And then there were those images of Oliver in the leathers of the Green Arrow, bound, helpless and wholly at his mercy. Why hadn't he killed him when he'd had the chance? It would have been so easy – just a bullet to the back of his skull, and all the years of hurt and hatred would have been at an end. But despite everything, despite the fact that Oliver had escaped and turned the tables on him, robbing him of his liberty in some godforsaken prison in the back of beyond, Lex had no regrets. He could recall vividly the rush of adrenalin he'd felt when he had Oliver on his knees before him, the incredible feeling of exhilaration he'd experienced as his torturers had set to work on his captive, breaking him down, layer by layer, until there was almost nothing left. He'd come _so_ close to breaking him – so close he'd almost been able to taste it. He wanted to enjoy those feelings again – _he needed to enjoy those feelings again_. Such was his obsession with Oliver, destroying him was now like a drug, an addiction; he wanted to feel once more the rush of destroying a man's life so completely that there is nothing left but for him to beg for death.

_And he would enjoy those feelings again – he was certain of it. _

The months he'd spent in captivity had not been spent brooding on past failures. He'd channelled the anger he felt, the deep hatred he harboured for those who had imprisoned him. And he had planned – how he had planned! Every stage in his plan to destroy the Justice League had been carefully mapped out in his head - every move considered, every counter-move anticipated. The result was something so perfect it almost took Lex's breath away. They would all be made to suffer, but Oliver more than all the others. He would strip him of his wealth, his reputation, his liberty, before finally he would claim his life. And, best of all, Oliver would have no knowledge of how or why it was happening; the great Green Arrow, brought low by forces he could not – would not – understand. At least, not until Lex chose to reveal all – the delivery of the coup de grace, when at last all hope would be lost.

It was brilliant – a plan of such artistry Lex did not believe he would ever be able to surpass it.

And now he was free, and able to put it into effect at last.

He could not wait to begin.

* * *

Lex is **BACK**! You can't keep a good villain down, and I feel a bit like he does at the end of this chapter - I can't wait to get started! A vengeful Lex can only mean bad things for our heroes - VERY bad things...

Hope you enjoyed it. Please, please, please review - feedback has the power to make me very happy, and it doesn't take much to offer a little encouragement.


	2. Chapter 2: Pieces of the Jigsaw

**Chapter Two: Pieces of the Jigsaw**

"Good morning, Miss Sullivan."

_Miss Sullivan. _No matter how many times Chloe visited the headquarters of Queen Industries, she still couldn't get used to being addressed so formally. She smiled at the man at the reception desk. It was a face she recognised, but she did not know his name; Oliver's organisation was so vast she wondered if she'd ever get to know even a fraction of the army of people who worked for him. He knew her, of course – hell, the whole of Metropolis knew her. She was the woman who had won the heart of the country's most eligible billionaire, the talk of the town. She'd lost count of the number of stories she'd read about herself over the previous couple of months, every one seeming to delight in the rags to riches tale of the small town girl who was living the fairy tale romance with her very own modern day prince charming.

"_If only they knew," _she thought to herself as she got into the elevator that would sweep her twenty four storeys upwards to Oliver's office. The press knew nothing of the truth about their favorite couple, of course – nothing about Oliver's double life as the city's most feared crimefighter, nothing about the events surrounding Jimmy's death five weeks earlier. Oliver's public relations team had gone into overdrive after her admittance to hospital with the bullet wound from her former friend's gun, and Chloe had soon come to realise just how powerful a force an efficient PR machine could be in controlling and manipulating a media hungry for stories to fill the gossip pages. Not a word of Chloe's stay in hospital had leaked to the press; the only mention of those terrible events had been a tiny story buried in the middle of the Planet, mourning the loss of Jimmy Olsen, a talented young photographer who had been killed in a fire at his childhood vacation retreat. Even now, with more than a month having past since Jimmy's death, the events which had taken place out at the cabin still sent a shiver down her spine. How someone apparently so normal could be driven to such acts of madness seemed almost beyond comprehension; that she had been the object of his insanity made it all the more difficult to bear. It had been a nightmare – and she could only give thanks that it was all over now.

As the elevator glided silently upwards Chloe's mind turned to the future. Where once there had been danger and threats, now her future with Oliver appeared untroubled – perfect, even. The drugs charges against Oliver that Jimmy had managed to engineer had been dropped, courtesy of one of the top legal teams in the country. The main crime syndicates of Metropolis were now on the run, thanks to the efforts of the Green Arrow, and, most miraculously of all, the dark cloud that had hung over them for so long had finally lifted – Lex Luthor was dead. Chloe could not quite believe that he was really gone, and that never again would she, Clark and Oliver have to cross swords with a man whose intelligence was only matched by his desire to do harm. Like Clark, it had taken her some time to come to terms with what had happened; she too remembered the old Lex from their days together back in Smallville, and she felt something of Clark's pain for the loss of a friend who had taken the wrong path. But whatever regrets she felt, she was glad that he was gone; she knew how much he hated Oliver, and it had scared her. During those traumatic hours before Oliver and others had managed to capture Lex and imprison him, Chloe had learnt something of just how much one man could loathe another. Lex's hatred of Oliver was frightening, and she was relieved that never again would he be in a position to hurt the man she loved.

The ping of the elevator bell announced that she had arrived at her destination. The doors parted, and Chloe stepped into a lobby area. The decor was crisply modern, stylish but understated; every inch what she'd expect of the entrance to Oliver's business empire.

"Good morning, Miss Sullivan," said the young woman behind the desk. "He's just finishing up with Mr Richards – go right on in."

Chloe walked across to the door which led to Oliver's office, before opening it and stepping inside.

Oliver was standing over by the window. Dressed casually in his favorite faded jeans and leather jacket, he looked even more stunning than normal, the warm morning sun that flooded the room catching his features and making his hair shine like a field of golden corn. He appeared to be reading some papers, another man in a suit standing patiently by his side.

"Lois warned me that I'd soon become part of the furniture – I just didn't expect it to happen before we got married," she said, a half-smile on her lips.

"Chloe!" said Oliver, looking up and seeing her framed in the doorway. "I didn't hear you come in! Man, is that the time? Sorry – things here have taken a little longer than I thought."

He seemed a little flustered, obviously aware that he was running behind schedule. Handing the papers to the other man, he went over to her and wrapped his arms around her waist, before kissing her on the lips by way of atonement for his lateness.

"If you think you can win me round with a kiss," said Chloe playfully, her lips parting slightly from Oliver's.

"Then I am completely right," replied Oliver, finishing her sentence for her before once more allowing his lips to meet hers. This time she surrendered to him more readily, her hands stretching across the lean expanse of muscle on back; her fingers dug into the supple leather of his jacket, pulling him towards her as their tongues entwined. He _did_ know her so well – and no matter how many times he kissed her, she still felt the thrill of being one with a man so perfect in every way.

A cough from the other side of the room reminded them that they were not alone.

"Mr Queen..."

"Sorry, Jack," said Oliver, turning towards the other man who stood rather uncomfortably near the window. "It's just this beautiful fiancé of mine – she's insatiable, you know?"

Chloe smiled broadly, gently thumping him on the chest to register her embarrassment.

"If you'd like me to come back later...?" continued Richards, clearly hoping to make his escape as quickly as possible.

"No, I think we're about done, don't you?" said Oliver, letting go of Chloe and walking over to his desk to pick up a file. "I guess I'll be away for a couple of weeks. If something happens, you know where to find me – in the arms of this little tiger here!"

He went to tickle Chloe. She shrieked in surprise, before bursting into a fit of giggles. Richards smiled thinly, his discomfort increasing by the second.

"Come on, Ollie, we're embarrassing Jack," said Chloe, pulling him towards the door. She was desperate to get away, to begin the vacation on Oliver's private Caribbean island that he'd promised her when she'd lain all those long boring days in that hospital bed.

"Okay, okay, I'm coming," he replied, putting up a show of resistance as Chloe continued to pull on his arm. "Women, eh?"

"Mr Queen, if I could just get you to sign these before you go," said Richards, pulling a set of papers from his case. He offered them to Oliver, who took them from him.

"What's this?" he asked, only half focusing on what Richards had given him as Chloe began to play with his hair.

"Just some routine property transfers," said Richards, trying to mask the tension in his voice.

Oliver scrawled his signature at the bottom of the page.

"You're in charge, Jack," he said, finally giving in to Chloe and allowing himself to be dragged towards the door. "Try not to lose too many of my millions while I'm away!"

And then they were gone.

Richards stood for a moment, his heart thumping hard in his chest. In his hand he held the papers that Oliver had just signed. He couldn't believe he'd done it – that he'd managed to get Oliver to sign the papers without him giving them a second glance. Normally Oliver was so careful about everything; whatever the playboy image, he'd not built a multi-million dollar company by being careless. But Oliver trusted him, of course; after all, he'd been with the company for years, the loyal deputy who had stuck by him through thick and thin. How could he know – how could he know that in fact he'd been planted in the Queen organisation by Lionel Luthor fifteen years earlier. Lionel had thought it prudent to have a spy in the offices of his rival, and for years he'd done nothing more than give a few tip offs about deals Queen Industries was involved in. Small scale stuff, and he'd heard nothing from Lionel's son for three years; he'd almost thought they'd forgotten about him. They hadn't – and nothing could have prepared him for the call he'd taken from Lex three weeks earlier. He was now involved in something so big it kept him awake at night, something that if all went to plan would mean that the world of the young man who had just left the room was about to come crashing down around his ears.

He took his cell from his pocket, and dialled the number he'd been told to ring when everything was in place.

"It's Richards," he said, after hearing the call connect.

"_Well?"_

"It's done – he signed the papers."

"_Excellent. And he suspected nothing?"_

"Nothing. He's heading off to the Caribbean, just like I told you – should be gone for about two weeks."

"_More than enough time for you to do what we agreed."_

"Yes sir."

"_Well let's hope Oliver enjoys his time in the sun – I don't think he's going to be taking another vacation any time soon, do you?"_

"No sir."

"_You've done well, Richards – very well. I won't forget this."_

"Thank you, Mr Luthor."

* * *

Lex snapped his cell shut, before replacing it in his jacket pocket. He stood for a moment, staring out through the window of his office towards the empty industrial units that stood all around. Times were hard, but at least the closure of some of Metropolis's older factories had allowed him to establish his improvised base of operations without undue interference. This was a part of town that people did not visit unless they had to, and Lex's security ensured that anyone who did happen to intrude was sent on their way with the minimum of disturbance. For the moment everything had to be done under the radar – there would be time to go public with his return from the dead, but that time was not now.

"Anyone I know?" asked a voice from behind him.

"Just business," replied Lex, turning to resume his conversation with the man who now sat on the other side of his desk. This was an important meeting, as important to his plans as the call he had just taken; he needed to handle his guest with care.

"It always was business with you, Lex," said the man easily, settling himself more comfortably into his chair. Ken Hoskins was in his thirties, and, at least for the time being, the city's District Attorney; that made him a person of immense importance to Lex.

"I have to say, your call came as a shock," he continued. "We all thought you'd died in that fire at the LuthorCorp building."

"What's that expression? Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated."

Hoskins laughed. "You always were a tough son of bitch, Lex! But why the secrecy? Why haven't you told the world your back? Hell, where have you been anyway?"

"I have my reasons for wanting to keep my return a secret," said Lex, his lips curling into a half smile.

There was a moment of silence, Lex making it clear that he was not going to elaborate on the months he'd been missing since the fire.

"So what do you want, Lex? You called me here for a reason – what is it?"

"I wanted to talk about a mutual friend of ours – Oliver Queen."

Lex watched his guest's face to see how he would react to the mention of Oliver's name. As he'd expected, he saw Hoskins features darken, a slight sneer forming on his lips.

"Queen is no friend of mine – you should know that, Lex," he said, the easy charm of a few seconds before disappearing in an instant. Lex responded with a faint smile; he'd calculated that Hoskins was the type of man who bore a grudge, and he'd not been disappointed. A year or so earlier the media arm of Queen Industries had run a story linking Hoskins with some corrupt real estate deals; there was not enough evidence to convict, but the nasty smell that had been left by the affair had been enough to kill Hoskins' burgeoning political career stone dead. What's more, Oliver had made it clear that he was going to support Hoskins' rival the next time he faced election; faced with the power of the Queen organisation, Hoskins was all but finished.

"I guessed you might still be sore about what happened last year," said Lex, his voice a study in cool self-control. "Which is why I thought you might be interested in a little secret Oliver's been keeping from the good people of Metropolis."

"Secret?" said Hoskins, his interest clearly piqued. "What secret?"

"Our friend Oliver has a secret double life."

"Double life? Don't tell me, he moonlights as some saint, working miracles amongst the poor," said Hoskins ironically.

"Not quite. No, he moonlights in an altogether more surprising way," said Lex, pulling a photograph from a file and carefully placing it in front of Hoskins. The quality of the image was not good, but it was a picture that every person in Metropolis could instantly recognise: a photo of the Green Arrow.

Hoskins stared at it for a moment, before looking at Lex, his eyes wide and incredulous.

"You mean... Queen is...?"

"The Green Arrow? Yes, that's exactly what I mean."

Again Hoskins paused.

"You've got proof? You can prove this?" he asked eventually, his surprise now giving way to excitement; Lex could almost see his mind whirring, working out what this revelation might mean for him and his future.

"I can prove it."

"Then why don't you go public? This could be huge, Lex! The Green Arrow's identity revealed – the press would be all over this like a rash!"

"Because if I go public now it would simply be an embarrassment to Oliver. No, I want to use this to hurt him, to break him – and that's where you come in, Ken."

There was silence in the room for a moment as the two men eyed each other, Hoskins trying to search Lex's face for any hint as to what his true intentions were. Lex was inscrutable, and simply sat, waiting patiently for the other man to do as he expected.

"You really hate him, don't you? I know that the rivalry between the Queens and the Luthors goes back a long way, but break him? What are you planning, Lex?"

"Let's just say that with your help I can bring Oliver Queen to his knees – hurt him so much that he will never recover. Now, will you help me or not?"

"What's in it for me?"

"Apart from the pleasure of seeing Oliver reduced to nothing? How about a contribution to your newly revived political ambitions – shall we say a half a million dollars?"

Hoskins's eyes widened slightly, as he tried to suppress his surprise at the sum that Luthor was offering him. For that money he'd do anything – and he'd certainly help Lex in whatever plan he had to destroy golden boy.

"Lex, I think you just made yourself a deal," he said finally, offering his hand out to Luthor. Lex took it, the two men sealing their agreement with a handshake.

"So what do you want me to do? I don't get what you're planning, Lex – Oliver's Robin Hood act has made him the most popular guy in the city."

"Well I think it's time that changed, don't you? I think it's time we gave the Green Arrow's reputation a makeover – one which will topple him from that pedestal he's been sitting on once and for all."

* * *

So, Lex's plan begins to take shape...

Hope you enjoyed this one. As the title says, it is all about Lex making his preparations, whilst our hero and Chloe continue to live out their dreams together. But dreams will turn to nightmares... (cue evil laugh!)

Next chapter will see Lex's plan really get underway, with some scary consequences for someone...

Thanks so much for reading, and a special thanks to those who took the time to review. Please, please, please do post some feedback - you have the ability to make this writer very, very happy!

Patriot airs next week - I am SO excited!


	3. Chapter 3: First Strike

**Chapter Three: First Strike**

Lex leaned back in his chair and sipped from his glass. The single malt tasted good; he'd missed these little luxuries during his time locked up in Bateman, his jailers showing no desire to allow him any indulgences. Curry had taken particular pleasure in ensuring he had no more than the bare minimum required to survive, and the young hero's smirk as he had been forced to eat the repulsive slop that passed for food in that place was one memory that would stay with him for a long time. He'd pay for that, of course; they would all pay for what they had done to him, each in a manner that was uniquely suited to their crime.

He felt relaxed. Everything was going exactly as he had planned; if anything, things were going a little _too _well. Oliver's decision to take Chloe on a romantic vacation to the Caribbean had taken him by surprise, but it only made the completion of his preparations that much more straightforward. It suited his purposes to have his primary target out of the way for a while. Richards could work away in Queen Industries without fear of discovery, and it gave Hoskins the chance to lay the groundwork for the Green Arrow's fall from grace. Above all, it allowed his other ally to take out the other members of Oliver's team. He smiled as he thought of Aquaman, Cyborg and Impulse, the men who had been thorns in his flesh for so long; what pleasure he was going to derive from seeing them brought their knees, one by one. How arrogant they were, how full of self-belief – they thought they were invincible. Well, soon that illusion of invincibility would be shattered for ever – his new secret weapon would see to that.

"Mr Luthor?"

Lex looked up, to find Cohen standing at the door.

"I thought you might like to see these, sir – our latest surveillance shots from St Henri."

Lex nodded, and Cohen walked over to the desk. St Henri was Oliver's private paradise down in the Caribbean, and the place where he had taken Chloe. It was an island of almost unbelievable beauty, a fact confirmed by the vivid blues of the sky and the sea that were reproduced in the photos that Lex now took from Cohen. On each Oliver and Chloe could be seen, sometimes swimming, sometimes sipping cocktails at a bar, sometimes in each other's arms, lost in their obvious love for each other.

"They do look the part, don't they? The perfect couple, in the perfect location," said Lex, his lip curling into a contemptuous smile. "Such a shame it all has to come to an end."

Cohen smiled too, her eyes flashing in expectation of what was to come.

"Our agents are asking whether they should continue their present surveillance routine," she asked.

"Tell them they are to continue exactly as they have been doing. Any change and they should let us know immediately – especially if Oliver shows any signs of coming home in the next couple of days."

"Yes sir."

"Any news from Slade? He promised me results by today."

"None, sir, but we're expecting him to make contact at any moment."

"Good...good," said Lex, leaning back in his chair once more. "I have high hopes for Slade, Tessa. Let's hope his reputation is well founded."

"Yes, sir."

"Let me know when he reports in."

Cohen turned and left the room. Lex remained in his chair, staring into space. He did indeed hope Slade's reputation was well founded – in fact, his entire plan for bringing down the Justice League depended on it. He'd only met the man a couple of times, but he'd been impressed; he looked the part - physically, at least. He'd towered over Lex, standing well over six feet tall, but it wasn't just his height that lingered in the memory. Lex had never encountered a man so obviously trained to a peak of physical perfection, muscle stacked upon muscle to the point where his appearance bordered on the freakish. Not that there was anything freakish about Slade – far from it. A sense of barely restrained menace seemed to seep from every pore, his stern, still features only adding to the air of violence that hung about him. No wonder he went by the name of Deathstroke. It was not a name that Lex cared to use – too reminiscent of the codenames of the Justice League, codenames he'd always held in contempt. But Lex had to admit that in Slade's case the name was well chosen; physically imposing and clad head to toe in black, he conjured to mind an image of the grim reaper.

He'd first heard of Slade's existence as he'd worked on the 33.1 project. The man had an almost mythical reputation. The subject of secret military experiments which had given him the strength of ten men and enhanced healing and combat capabilities, he'd escaped from the facility in which he was being held and had set himself up as a mercenary for hire, specialising in assassination and torture. The stories surrounding him were numerous, and during the months Lex had spent locked away he'd found himself returning to the name again and again. If the stories were true, then Lex knew that he would be the perfect tool with which to take down the Justice League; a metahuman who could equal the powers of his enemies, and who was expert in taking down the most formidable of foes. Lex had wasted no time in tracking the man down when he'd escaped from Bateman, and, after some negotiation, the two men had reached a deal. Now came the first test of Slade's reputation; would he live up to his billing, or would the whole essence of Lex's plan have to be reconsidered?

There was a knock at the door, Cohen, not waiting for an answer, immediately entering.

"He's here," she said, an edge of excitement in her voice.

"And?"

"I think you should come and see."

Lex got up from his seat, his heart beating a little harder in his chest. He could tell from the look on Cohen's face that Slade had not returned empty handed. He was eager to see for himself what his new ally had brought him, but did not rush as he moved towards the door; Lex was always acutely conscious of outward appearances, and whatever he felt inside, he wanted to maintain a veneer of studied control to his lieutenants, as well as to Slade himself.

Two minutes later and Lex walked into the underground lot that he had had converted into a makeshift laboratory. To one side a gurney stood in an upright position, the array of monitors and wires next to it an ominous sign of what was to come. Three or four figures in white lab coats busied themselves nearby, their activity an indication that their skills were going to be needed very soon. Elsewhere eight or nine LuthorCorp agents stood guard, their black uniforms and dark expressions combining with the harsh strip lighting to create an air of menace. They appeared insignificant, however, when compared to the man who stood by the car near the main entrance to the lot. Clad in black combat fatigues and standing well over six feet tall, Slade towered over the scene, his brooding stillness a commanding presence that exuded power.

"Slade, I hear your mission was successful," said Lex, his voice measured and easy. Slade was an intimidating figure, but Lex was determined not to be overawed; _he _was in charge, and he had no intention of giving any other impression, either to Slade or his own men.

"I got what you wanted," replied Slade casually, a faint smile appearing on his lips. His mission had been business, but Slade was known to take pleasure in his work. It was this that had contributed to his fearsome reputation. He enjoyed terrorising his victims, playing with them like a cat would play with a mouse before finally delivering the fatal blow. Slade was a sadist, a man who revelled in inflicting pain on others; Lex could only imagine what he had done to his latest victim over the course of the last few hours.

"So," said Lex expectantly. "Where is he? My team are eager to start work on their new lab rat."

Slade did not reply, but turned and opened up the trunk. He then reached in, and with one hand pulled out the figure of a man, his limbs twisted so cruelly by chain and rope that for a split second Lex could not quite make out whether it was indeed the man he had charged Slade to capture. Slade held the figure aloft for a moment, almost like a sportsman holding a trophy high in the air, before tossing him down to the ground, a ball of trussed up humanity that rolled awkwardly to Lex's feet.

Lex looked down, his throat now dry with expectation. The uniform was one he recognised, the silvers and greys of a member of the Justice League...

He pushed the man on to his back with his foot, knowing full well whose eyes would stare up to meet him, full of shock and fear. He was not disappointed; it was indeed Victor Stone, known to the world as Cyborg.

"Victor Stone! How good of you to drop by!" taunted Lex, unable now to suppress the obvious pleasure he was feeling at that moment. The young hero's eyes widened in horror as Lex towered over him, but he could not speak; duct tape wrapped tightly around his mouth and head rendered him silent.

"Surprised to see me?" continued Lex, kneeling down by his stricken captive. He took Victor firmly by the chin, forcing his head back in a move calculated to emphasise his utter helplessness. "What was that? You thought I was dead? I guess that's what surf boy told you – well, you should know better than to listen to a dumb blond like Curry, shouldn't you? He was wrong, my friend – very wrong. As you can see, I'm very much alive – and so looking forward to showing you how grateful I am for all those months you and your freak friends took away from me."

The shock had gone from Victor's eyes, to be replaced by mute defiance. He struggled impotently against his bonds, grunting in anger and frustration as he was reminded of what he already knew; escape was impossible.

"I know, I know – you want to thank me. But there's no need, Victor – really. Hurting you is all the thanks I need."

Lex stood up. He nodded to his guards, who grabbed Stone and began to drag him towards the gurney.

"I'm impressed, Slade – really," said Lex, stepping towards the other man. "Stone is strong – subduing him must have been quite a challenge."

"Nothing I couldn't handle," replied the other man, as if capturing Victor was nothing more than an ordinary day's work. "I like a challenge, Luthor – and hunting these Justice League freaks is just the sort of challenge I've been looking for."

Lex was irritated by Slade's use of his surname, but he didn't let it show; a lack of respect was a price he was prepared to pay if the mercenary could deliver the Justice League to him on a plate.

Suddenly there was the sound of raised voices. Lex spun round, to find two of his men flying through the air. The chains that had restrained Victor lay broken on the floor, and the young hero stood defiantly by the gurney, his eyes blazing with the exhilaration of possible escape. It was instantly obvious what had happened; in the process of securing Victor Lex's men had lost control, and Cyborg had got loose.

"Get him!" hissed Lex, glaring at the guards who stood round, apparently rooted to the spot. They rushed forwards, but Victor was too quick for them; sidestepping their clumsy attacks, he sent all three of them flying with a series of roundhouse kicks and crunching blows to their stomachs and heads. Lex could only look on impotently as Victor then began to run towards the exit, determined to make his escape. Then, suddenly, he was aware of movement to his left; Lex barely had time to register that Slade had taken some form of weapon from his jacket before Victor appeared to freeze in mid air, before collapsing to the ground. The young hero appeared paralysed, some sort of knife protruding from his left shoulder blade. He clawed desperately at the floor, trying to drag himself forwards to freedom, but his legs would not obey. Helpless, he could only watch as Slade bore down upon him, grabbing him by the throat and lifting him into the air once more.

"I warned you what would happen if you tried to escape, boy!" he roared, his voice echoing around the lot. Gone was the cool figure who had so effortlessly dominated the room just moments earlier. Now Slade appeared like a beast possessed, the rage that he felt that his captive had dared to defy him writ large on his face. Lex watched, fascinated, as Slade continued to hold Victor by the neck, squeezing tighter and tighter so that slowly he was being starved of oxygen. Victor's eyes began to bulge in their sockets, and his arms flayed around, trying to get some purchase on the man who held him mercilessly in a vice-like grip. It was a futile gesture, and very quickly his attempts to escape faltered, his face gradually draining of color. Lex was transfixed. Stone was a powerful man; the men who lay scattered across the concrete floor were testimony to that. And yet here he was, tossed around like some rag doll being played with by a child. But what really fascinated Lex, what really excited him, was the look in Victor's eyes. It was a look he'd not seen before, not even when he'd held the Justice League at his mercy all those months before.

It was terror – cold, wide-eyed terror.

At last Slade eased his grip, and Victor gulped at the air, desperate to breathe. Still holding him feet off the ground, the mercenary strode over to the gurney, never once taking his eyes from the still terrified face of his captive. He then slammed Victor down onto its hard surface, the young man wincing in agony as his body impacted with the metal. Luthor's men, now recovered from the blows they had received moments earlier, rushed forward and began to strap the hapless hero into place. Manacles and thick leather belts were used to restrain his ankles, wrists, neck and torso, so that within a few seconds Victor was once more effectively secured.

"I hope these chains are better than your men, Luthor," remarked Slade, whose hand continued to press down on Victor's throat. "You know what this boy is capable of – I didn't expect to have to take him down a second time."

"The manacles have been tested – he's not going anywhere, I promise you," said Lex, regaining some of his sang froid. "An impressive piece of kit you used to bring our friend here to heal. Can I...?"

"A knife tipped with a liquid computer virus," interrupted Slade, at last removing his hand from Victor's neck. "I do my homework, Luthor – never go up against a man unless you know their weaknesses."

"Good advice," said Lex, a smile returning to his lips as he once more stood gloating over his prize. "Williams, I want you to begin as soon as possible – I'm eager to get this phase of the operation over with as quickly as possible."

One of the lab coated figures responded to Lex's command, stepping forward before beginning to attach a variety of wires and probes to Victor's forehead. The young hero could only look on silently as he was prepared for whatever Lex had in store for him, the gag and the heavy metal and leather restraints making any show of resistance impossible.

"So, which one of these freaks do you want me to take out next?" said Slade, turning towards a bank of screens mounted high on one wall. Victor could just make them out, and to his horror he saw that each of them showed an image of a member of the Justice League. He could see his own picture, as well as pictures of Bart and AC, both dressed in their uniforms. Oliver was there too, his picture next to an image of the hooded figure of the Green Arrow.

"What about Queen?" continued Slade, staring up at Oliver's picture. "I've heard a lot about this Green Arrow – wiping the smile off that pretty boy's face will give me a lot of satisfaction."

"No, Oliver can wait – I've got something special planned for him," said Lex, joining Slade in front of the screens. "Your next targets are Curry and the kid – do you think you can handle them together?"

Slade looked at Lex. "You've seen what I can do, Luthor – what do you think?"

Victor strained desperately at his bonds. It was clear now what Lex intended; to bring down the Justice League, starting with himself. He needed to warn his friends, to let them know about the monster who now threatened them all...

"You've impressed me, Slade," said Lex. "With your help Queen's band of freaks will finally get what they deserve – starting with Mr Stone here."

Suddenly Victor was aware of the man in the lab coat bending over him, a surgical mask now hiding the lower half of his face. In his hand Victor could see that he held a tiny syringe, filled with a purple liquid. He grunted an obscenity into his gag, a last show of defiance before the inevitable.

"Don't worry, Victor – they tell me this won't hurt at all," said Lex, joining the other man at his side. "Believe me, compared to what I'm going to do to Oliver and water boy, what you are about to experience is _nothing._"

Victor suddenly felt the syringe plunge into his neck. The last image he saw as he drifted into unconsciousness was the image of himself, displayed on Lex's screen. As his eyes flickered he saw the picture disappear, to be replaced by a black screen, filled with two words:

_**TARGET: DELETED**_

_**

* * *

**_

So Lex's plan begins - and with Deathstroke by his side you just know our heroes are in BIG trouble, don't you? Just to be clear, my Deathstroke is not the same as the guy we saw in Patriot. My Deathstroke is my idea of the character having read about him online - a merciless killer with abilities that allow him to take on our guys. I'm not a comic book expert, so apologies if you are and you don't like what I've written. However, I wanted a supervillain alongside Lex, and Deathstroke is perfect for what I have planned...

I hope you liked this chapter. I wanted to show how terrifying Slade can be, to set up what is to come. Lots more drama and angst on the way, I promise...

Did you like Patriot? I loved seeing AC again, and Ollie looked amazing in every scene. Wish there had been more time for drama and action though - have to make up for it with more fic, I guess.

Please do post a review if you can. Every review gives me such a massive boost, you can't imagine! I love hearing from you, so please let me know what you think, and make this writer very happy!

Hope to get the next chapter up next week - see you then!


	4. Chapter 4: The Terrors of the Night

**Chapter Four: The Terrors of the Night**

Slade placed the cursor over the cross in the top right hand corner of the screen, before a tap of his finger closed the file he'd been studying for the last hour or so. Luthor had collected a wealth of information on his targets since the League had first surfaced, and the flash drives that he'd been given contained all the material he needed to prepare for his next mission. He'd finished his assessment of Bart Allen's file a few hours earlier, and now, having scrutinised what was known of Arthur Curry, he at last felt able to relax a little. It was always like this; once he was given a target, he could not rest until he had learnt all there was to know about them. His levels of concentration were phenomenal, and he could lose himself for hours as he researched his next victim. He devoured information, alert to the potential importance of even the most seemingly insignificant of details. Detail mattered; it was what gave him the edge. Slade knew that this was even more important than ever, given who he was up against. He'd kept his cool in front of Lex, not wishing to cast doubt on the reputation he'd cultivated so carefully over many years, but he was acutely aware that this was the most challenging assignment he'd ever been given. He was used to taking out mob bosses, politicians, soldiers – they were his everyday bread and butter, and something he was so practised in he could almost do it in his sleep. But the Justice League – they were something altogether different. For the first time, he found himself charged with capturing men who had powers similar to his own. He did not doubt his ability to do it, but he knew that for the first time since he'd started work as a hired assassin, success was not guaranteed.

_But that was why he was excited – more excited than he'd ever been in his entire life. _

He'd grown bored in the last year or so – bored of the repetition, the lack of challenge. Once every mission had excited him; the preparation, the hunt, the capture, the final kill. But it had all become too easy, as the certainty of success had replaced the excitement of being given a fresh target with the prosaic normality of taking out another hapless victim. Once he'd enjoyed the rush of toying with his prey, watching the fear in their eyes, their pointless cries for mercy before he finally put them out of their misery. But even that had disappeared; now, staring into the eyes of yet another middle aged businessman who'd made one too many enemies as he pleaded pathetically for his life, he felt nothing. He had killed too many times - _he had killed so much he was no longer able to enjoy it..._

But that was the past. Now he felt alive once more, alert and hungry for the hunt. The boys of the League were not stupid, overweight men in suits, as easy to gut as lambs in a slaughterhouse. They were in their prime, with powers that made them formidable foes. And they were proud, full of the confidence and certainty of youth. It was that, perhaps more than anything else, that had restored the pleasure he felt in his work, a pleasure he'd thought he might never recover. He thought back to his confrontation with Victor Stone. He remembered the look he'd seen in the young hero's eyes as they'd faced up to each other, that unshakeable conviction that he could not lose. And then the fight, Stone's arrogance giving way first to disbelief, and then to fear, as he was beaten to within an inch of his life. Slade recalled his exhilaration as he'd wrapped the thick chain around the other man's neck, pulling it ever tighter until at last he'd accepted his defeat. It was a feeling like no other, the intoxication of absolute victory. He was alive again – and now he had tasted success, he was hungry for more.

He leaned back in his chair, and for the first time in hours he allowed his eyes to drift away from the computer screen. The far corners of the room were barely visible, as the only light in the windowless basement was cast by a solitary bulb hanging high above him. It was little more than an empty box, save for a table and the chair he now sat in – and the equipment that Slade always took with him on every mission. He'd rejected Lex's offer of a base at his headquarters; Luthor might be bankrolling the operation, but Slade was a loner, and had no need of someone looking over his shoulder as he worked. He liked to be master of his own space, so that he could install his equipment as _he_ wanted it. And his portable arsenal was formidable, every type of weapon laid out methodically along one side of the room. Opposite he'd prepared an entirely different set of equipment, what he liked to call his "toys." Coils of chain and rope were surrounded by shackles of every shape and size; ranged alongside them were various metal devices, implements of torture straight out of the Middle Ages. Behind them all stood a huge St Andrew's cross. Made of wood and stained with blood, the manacles at each of its corners could only hint at the agonies it had witnessed.

Slade had been disappointed that he'd not had an opportunity to introduce Stone to his toys; it would have been the perfect conclusion to the hunt. But Lex had been insistent that the boy was delivered to him without delay, and Slade had felt compelled to comply. Next time would be different – next time he would have more fun. He had particular plans for Curry, and then there was Oliver Queen...

He reached across the table and picked up a photograph of Oliver. He liked to have pictures of his targets; they helped him to concentrate his mind, visualise the hunt that was to come. The photograph of Oliver was one beloved by many of Metropolis's editors, and showed him posing outside a charity ball in the city the previous fall. He appeared to be the man who had it all – the looks, the money, the air of effortless self-confidence. What possessed a man like that to take on the mantle of some wannabe hero, he wondered? Was it boredom? A need to satisfy some deep sense of insecurity? Whatever it was, it was about to cost him his life – and in the most perverse way imaginable. When Lex had told him how he planned to dispose of his rival he had been surprised – shocked even. Lex's mind was so twisted, so demented, that he had dreamt up a torment of such exquisite evil that Slade could only wonder at what must have passed between the two men to generate such hatred. In some ways Slade could understand Lex; they both felt no compunction at the taking of a human life, and contempt for a moral code that seemed to protect weakness and failure. But that was where the similarity ended. For Slade, it was the act of killing which gave him pleasure. He felt no sense of personal anger towards his victims; to him they were simply prey, a means to make money, and a route to personal satisfaction. For Lex, it was different. Killing was personal; he hated his victims, and wanted to make them pay for how they had wronged him. And Lex hated no one more than Oliver Queen – and no one was going to suffer more than the young billionaire who now smiled back at him from the picture.

Slade threw the photo back on the table, and slipped down a little into the chair. He was tired, and it was time to get some rest.

Tomorrow would be a busy day, and one for which he would need all his strength. The next hunt would be more challenging, but the outcome promised to be more satisfying.

Come tomorrow night, two more members of the Justice League would have fallen into his clutches.

And this time, he_ would_ have his fun.

* * *

"_I love you, Chloe – I love you so much!"_

_They are words that seem so familiar – words that he has said to her a thousand times. But this time something is different – something is wrong. The words are Oliver's, but the voice..._

_I open my eyes. I am staring, horrified, not into the face of the man I love, but into the face of a man I thought was dead, a man I thought could no longer hurt me..._

_Jimmy!_

_I open my mouth to cry out, but for some reason no sound emerges. He is coming towards me now, reaching out to touch me, to claim me..._

_I try to move, but I cannot. I am tied to a post, hands and feet bound with thick rope which makes any attempt at escape impossible. Desperately I pull at my bonds, but to no avail; I am his captive, powerless and at his mercy..._

_He is standing in front of me now, leaning in so that I can feel his warm breath on my face, my neck._

"_You're mine Chloe – all mine!"_

_Now he is kissing me. On my neck, my face, my lips. I clamp my eyes shut, trying to shield myself from the nightmare that is unfolding. I try to resist, to turn away, but I cannot. I can feel the bile rising in my throat as his hands touch me, caressing my body in a way that sickens me to my very core._

_Oliver, where are you? Please, I need you!_

"_Get your hands off her, you sick son-of-a-bitch!"_

_Oliver!_

_Again my eyes spring open. It's him! He stands high above us on a balcony, dressed in the uniform of the Green Arrow. He exudes strength and heroism, the embodiment of all that is good and true. Jimmy rushes forwards, as if to make his escape, but Oliver is too quick for him. Back flipping off the balcony and on to the floor, he catches Jimmy just before he can make it to the door, despatching him with a roundhouse kick and a couple of bone shattering blows to the head._

_It is over. My knight in shining leather has saved me once again._

_He is walking towards me now, pulling down his hood and removing his glasses as he does so. He looks so beautiful, so perfect – I feel as though I love him more now than I have ever loved him before._

_He smiles. God, how I love his smile! Soon he will hold me in his arms, tell me the nightmare is over..._

_Something's wrong._

_The smile – the smile has gone. Suddenly he is no longer my hero, the man who can conquer all. Now he looks confused, uncertain... afraid._

_Why is he standing still? What's wrong? Please God, tell me what's wrong!_

_A trickle of red liquid at the corner of his mouth. _

_Blood!_

_He stares down. My eyes follow, and then widen with sheer terror. There, piercing the thick leather of his tunic, is the point of a blade. Blood oozes from the wound, pumping out obscenely, fatally..._

_He looks up, his eyes now filled with incredulity. It makes no sense – what's happened? How has this happened!_

_He is mouthing something. I know what he's saying – he's said it so many times, and in so many different ways..._

"_I love you!"_

_I love you too, Oliver!_

_I need to reach out to him, to hold him, to tell him it will be alright. But I can't - I am trapped. He needs me – please, he needs me!_

_A sound. Terrible, sickening – like the sound of a shovel being pulled from thick mud._

_He falls to his knees. He is still for a moment, before he is pushed forwards, falling lifeless to the floor._

_I look up._

_No – it can't be!_

_Lex is standing there, a blood stained sword in his hand. His eyes flash triumphantly as he stands over his stricken victim, filled with bloodlust._

_He rolls Oliver onto his back. I can see that he is still alive. He looks so helpless, so weak!_

_Lex places the point of the blade over his heart. He is preparing to deliver the fatal blow. This can't be happening! Please, someone, stop this!_

_Lex speaks._

"_Goodbye, Oliver,"_

_He thrusts the blade deep into Oliver's chest..._

"No!"

Chloe sat bolt upright in the bed, her body drenched in sweat. In front of her, through the large window that looked out across the waters of the bay, she could see the distant lights of houses. The sound of waves gently breaking on the beach below was the only thing that disturbed the silence of the night, a soothing balm to her troubled mind.

It had been a dream, that's all. Just a dream.

"Hey, it's okay...it's all okay."

Oliver's voice, soft and reassuring, helped ease the panic that had gripped her just seconds earlier. A strong arm wrapped itself around her, and a wave of relief washed over her as she allowed herself to be pulled in next to his body. She nuzzled against his chest, his warm, smooth skin offering protection against the terrors of the night.

"It was a bad dream," she whispered simply, her voice still showing signs of the fear that had taken hold of her. She did not normally remember her dreams, but this one still burned vividly in her minds' eye; the blade sticking out of Oliver's gut, the look of pure evil in Lex's eyes as he plunged the sword into her lover's heart...

"Well it's over now, okay?" said Oliver gently, sensing how traumatised Chloe was. He wondered what sort of nightmare could produce such a reaction, but knew better than to ask. She looked scared, vulnerable, and instinctively he knew that at this time he needed simply to hold her, to let her know that whatever haunted her subconscious, he was there for her – he would always be there for her.

"Don't ever leave me, Ollie," she whispered, burying herself even deeper into his chest. "Promise me you'll never leave me – promise."

"Ssshhh," he replied, stroking her hair to calm her. "I love you, Chloe, and I'll always be here for you – I promise."

At last Chloe seemed to relax a little, and the two of them slowly fell back onto the bed. Oliver continued to stroke Chloe's hair; like a father gently lulling his child off to sleep, he continued to watch over her until at last exhaustion overtook her, and she fell once more into sleep.

For thirty minutes or more Oliver tried to follow her, but try as he might, his mind remained stubbornly alert. He could not stop thinking about Chloe. She had been through so much, and the nightmare that she had just experienced was obviously a sign that whatever outward appearances might suggest, she was far from being healed inside. It was going to take time for her to recover from what she had been through, but she _would_ recover – and he would be there for her, every step of the way.

Eventually he gave up his attempt to sleep, and, taking care not to wake her, he silently slipped out of the bed and walked over to the window. It was a sticky night, and a thin film of sweat glistened on his skin in the moonlight as he stared out across the bay. A slight breeze blew in off the waves, feeling good against his naked body. He took a deep breath, enjoying the sweetness of the air.

He felt completely at peace. He and Chloe were together, and the two men who most threatened their happiness were dead. It was as if a waking nightmare had at last come to an end, and as he looked to the future he could see only blissful contentment.

In the far distance, out beyond the bay, a distant rumble of thunder rippled ominously through the still night air.

* * *

After the action of the last chapter, a different tone to this one. I wanted to flesh out my version of Deathstroke a little more, so that what is to come makes more sense - I have a vision of him as an all powerful psychopath, and I hope that this has got you excited for the confrontations we will see in future chapters. And of course we needed some Chlollie - but again with a good dose of angst. Was that dream a premonition? You'll have to wait and see...

Hope you liked it. Thanks so much for reading, and of course a MASSIVE thankyou to those who took the time to review. Please do leave some feedback if you can - I love to hear what you think, and every review just inspires me to write more!

There could be a bit of delay with the next chapter, but hopefully it will be up sometime in about a week. More action and drama to come, I promise!


	5. Chapter 5: Setting the Stage

**Chapter Five: Setting the Stage**

Arthur Curry stood staring up at the bank of computer screens, each one displaying a map of a different part of the city. His features seemed so far removed from the carefree surf boy that had joined Oliver's band of heroes all those months before that it was almost as if he were a different person. In some ways he was, of course. He was older now, tougher, and whilst the ready grin and easy sense of humour remained, his experiences at the hands of Lex and his minions had left their mark. When he'd first met Oliver he'd been a boy, his brash exterior a mask for a wealth of insecurities. He'd had abilities, but he'd not known how to use them, how to live in a world where he was different. Oliver had changed all that. He'd given him a sense of purpose, a sense of meaning, and for that he would always be grateful. It might have been less than a year since he'd first met the young billionaire, but in that year he had become a man. He knew who he was now, his personality forged by experience and adversity. The League had made him who he was, and the sense of loyalty he felt towards the men he considered his brothers was immense. Oliver, Bart, Victor – they meant more to him than anything else in the world, and he would give his life for them if he had to.

It was this sense of brotherhood which accounted for the deep frown that was etched into his forehead, his face clouded with concern. It was all so different to what he'd expected, of course. When Oliver and Chloe had asked him to man Watchtower during their vacation he'd leapt at the chance; the city had been quiet for a number of weeks, and he'd felt he deserved a little R and R after all that had happened with Lex. It was going to be two weeks relaxing in the hot tub, working out in the gym and lazing in front of the game on TV. And so it had been – until yesterday, and his daily review of the team's status.

Victor hadn't checked in.

He tried everything to raise him, but nothing had worked; two hours of increasingly anxious calls had been met only with silence, until finally he'd given up, exhausted. He'd had a fitful night's sleep, turning over and over again in his head all the possible explanations of his friend's disappearance. It could have been nothing, of course; after all, Bart was forever failing to check in on time. But Victor – Victor wasn't like Bart; he didn't make mistakes like that. That left only more worrying possibilities, which in the darkness of the night seemed to get more ominous with every passing minute.

He'd been up for an hour when his worst fears had been confirmed. Victor's distress signal had been activated - here, in Metropolis. Again he'd tried to raise him, but again he'd received no reply. And so here he was, staring up at a light which flashed silently on a map, wondering, waiting...

"Got your message, Fish Stick – any news?"

AC turned, to find Bart striding towards him from the direction of the elevator.

"The signal hasn't moved," said AC, looking back towards the screen as the teenager joined him at his side." I've checked out the location – it's a disused warehouse over in Bowden."

"An abandoned warehouse? Why couldn't Victor get short circuited some place original for a change?"

A half smile flashed briefly on the older man's face. He was glad that Bart was there. For all their sparring, the two of them were great friends; AC felt like an older brother to the teen, and at this moment of possible danger it was good to have one of his comrades by his side.

"You call the big guy?" continued Bart, his eyes fixed on the blinking light on the computer screen.

"No – I figured we could handle this one on our own," replied AC. He'd thought about calling Oliver, but had decided against it. He knew how much this vacation meant to him, and how much he wanted to escape from all that had happened and spend time with Chloe. He didn't want to disturb him for what might turn out to be nothing more than a faulty bit of kit; he knew where Oliver was – if they needed help, then he'd ask for it.

"What about Clark?"

AC paused before replying. Again, he'd thought about calling Clark, but the memory of how they'd parted in the hospital after he'd told them of Lex's death was still raw. He'd not seen Clark since, and the resentment that he'd felt at Clark's unspoken accusation that in some way he was behind Luthor's death had only festered with the passage of time. Why should he call Clark? He wasn't a full member of the team, after all. Clark preferred working alone – he'd made that all too clear on many occasions. No, there was no need to call Clark – he and Bart could handle this themselves.

"I couldn't get hold of him."

Bart glanced across at AC, who continued to stare up at the screen. He knew that his friend was lying, but he didn't want to make a big deal of it. AC's relationship with Clark had never been straightforward, much like Oliver's; there was a layer of suspicion there, buried deep within the young hero's subconscious. At the root of it was the fact that Clark remained an outsider. He had chosen not to join them, and so they remained a team of four; perhaps one day Clark would join them, but that day had not yet arrived.

"So it's just the two of us, yeah?"

"Just the two of us."

"Then what are we waiting for, dude? Let's suit up and go save Victor's ass!"

* * *

Hoskins took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. On the other side of the door he could hear the murmur of dozens of voices, overlapping with each other to create a gentle buzz of expectation. The whole of the Metropolis press corps was there – newspapers, TV, the lot. It wasn't often that he gave a press conference – and when he did, normally he was lucky if he got three or four of the local hacks to turn up. This time, however, it was different – this time he'd promised them a scoop that was guaranteed to make their front pages. He'd not said any more, but it was enough – the gentlemen of the press, their noses finely attuned to the slightest hint of a story, had needed no further encouragement.

Could he do this? His heart was pounding away in his chest so hard he feared it was going to explode, and beneath his jacket he could feel his sweat-soaked shirt sticking to his skin. Would his body betray him? Would they see through the lies he was about to tell? He could only pray that he could keep it together long enough to do what he had to do...

The door opened – the wait was over.

Hoskins stepped forward and entered the room. He walked as calmly as he could towards the podium, conscious of the countless pairs of eyes that at moment were staring at him, wondering what possible scoop he could have to offer them...

He turned to face them, grasping each side of the lectern to hide the fact that his hands were shaking.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, reassured to find that his voice sounded remarkably normal. "I've called you all here today because I have to share with you news that I know will shock and disappoint not only the people assembled in this room, but also the good people of this fine city of ours."

He paused, aware of the television cameras which were pointed in his direction; what he was about to say would without a doubt make him the lead story on that evening's news.

"Over the last few months I, like you, have witnessed a miracle in this city. Our streets have been swept clean of some of our most notorious criminals, thanks to the efforts of one man, a man who has chosen to keep his identity a secret – the Green Arrow. This man has become a hero to us, a hero to our children. Ladies and gentlemen, it grieves me to have to tell you this, but the Green Arrow is not the hero we thought he was. He is, in fact, no better than those he has helped to put behind bars – a common criminal, and, if our sources are proved correct, a murderer."

There was a ripple of disbelief amongst his audience. Again Hoskins paused, eager to let the full meaning of his words sink in; his nerves had disappeared, and he was enjoying the power that came with knowing that there was not a single person in that room who was not now hanging on his every word.

"In the last week, as you may know, three of our banks have been robbed. Each attack occurred at night, and on each occasion the thief avoided the security guards and disabled the security systems. They appeared to be the perfect crimes, until two nights ago, when the thief made his first mistake – he missed one of the security cameras monitoring the bank's vault."

Hoskins nodded to a man sitting at the back of the room, and on cue some grainy security footage appeared on the screen behind him. Some of the journalists gasped as they saw the unmistakable figure of the Green Arrow make his way towards the vault, before placing charges to blow open the safe. Hoskins smiled inwardly; just as Lex had predicted, the faked tape was lending the credibility of a visual image to his destruction of the Green Arrow's reputation.

"As you can see, we now know who is behind these attacks," said Hoskins, as the film came to an abrupt end. "It seems clear now why the Green Arrow has been cleaning up the streets of Metropolis. It was done not in the cause of justice – it was done so that he could establish himself as the king of crime in our city!"

Hoskins finished with a dramatic flourish, and immediately he was deluged with a flood of questions as a sea of raised arms appeared in front of him. He was quite deliberate in the one he chose to answer first.

"You said that the Green Arrow was a murderer – what evidence have you got to support that?"

"I'm glad you asked that question, Frank. You may remember a couple of months ago the Green Arrow was implicated in the killing of a security guard, but was exonerated as a result of an investigation by Lois Lane of the Daily Planet. It would appear now that Miss Lane was duped by the archer, and that in fact he was involved in that murder – our investigations into exactly what happened are ongoing."

"What should the public do, Mr Hoskins?"

"Stay calm, and stay vigilant – we have no idea where the Arrow might strike next. Now that the truth about his activities has been exposed, we have no way of knowing what he might do." He paused, before turning his head in the direction of the nearest camera. "And that is why I am now making an appeal to the people of Metropolis. If you know anything about the Green Arrow – anything at all – please let the authorities know. This man must be stopped, before it's too late."

The questions continued, but Hoskins had said enough; he turned and stepped off the podium, before walking calmly towards the door. His face was a picture of statesmanlike gravity, but inside he felt exultant. He'd pulled it off – he'd actually pulled it off! He couldn't believe how easy it had been – some staged attacks on a few banks, a man dressed up in a Green Arrow costume, and in a few minutes the reputation of a hero dragged into the gutter. Of course it wasn't over yet – not by a long shot. Questions would be asked, people would start digging. But that didn't matter – the stage had been set.

In a couple of days the main event would begin.

* * *

So the danger grows... No prizes for guessing who's waiting for AC and Bart in that warehouse, and Ollie falls victim to the curse of all costumed heroes with a secret identity - the imposter! Lots of action and angst to come - Lex and Slade have some VERY bad things planned for our heroes, which I think will surprise you!

Hope you enjoyed it. Thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter - you make me so happy! Please, please, please do leave a review if you can - they really do make my day, and encourage me to keep on writing!


	6. Chapter 6: I am Deathstroke!

**Chapter Six: I am Deathstroke!**

AC cut through the water like a torpedo, his body at one with the waters that surrounded him. The canal was filled with obstacles of every type and size, from the keels of boats to the debris of a city that no longer seemed to care about its once proud waterway. It angered him to see the canal this way, so full of trash and industrial waste that only the toughest of creatures was able to survive here. There were no fish to accompany him on his journey, as he weaved his way towards his destination; fish hadn't lived in these oxygen starved waters for decades. One day they would return - one day he would fulfil his mission to save the environment that was his true home...

And it was his true home. Even in these polluted waters, he felt more alive than he had done in days. The water felt good against his skin, soaking through his costume to give him strength. After the hours of waiting back at Watchtower, at last he felt empowered once more, ready to take on whatever – or whoever – waited for him at the warehouse. He would save Victor, and prove to Oliver that he was worthy of the trust he had placed in him. He was Aquaman – and he could take on the world.

At last he arrived at his destination, coming to a halt in the water and curling round to face the quayside with the ease of an eel. Cautiously he pushed his head above the waterline, his senses attuned to every sound, every movement; he was close now, and he could not afford to take any chances.

"What took you so long? Gills clam up or something?"

There, slouched against an old oil drum just a few feet away, was Bart.

AC shook his head, before pulling himself up and out of the water. He stood for a moment at the canal's edge, the sun catching the water as it dripped from his muscular frame. Masculine and imposing, his face was a study in concentration, alive to the dangers that might lie ahead; resplendent in the greens and oranges of his suit, he was every inch the hero he wanted to be.

"You need to hit the weights, dude – you're carrying some excess ballast round those water wings of yours."

AC did not respond to Bart's jibe; after countless missions together, he'd got used to the teenager's sense of humour. It was the kid's way of coping with the pressure, and AC knew full well that when the time for action arrived Bart would be as ready as he was.

"Any sign of trouble?" he asked, striding forwards and looking over to his right. There, derelict and apparently deserted, stood the warehouse that was their target.

"Everything's quiet, man," replied Bart, pulling himself to his feet. "I've gone right round that place, and nothing's moving."

"And inside?"

"Dude, I follow orders – you told me not to look inside, so I've just been sitting here, waiting for you to haul your geriatric ass out of that canal."

AC paused for a moment, his eyes focused on the door to the warehouse, located over to the right.

"Ready?" he asked simply, glancing across at Bart.

"Dude, you know I'm ready."

"Then let's do this."

The two men jogged lightly over to the door. They came to a halt in front of it, stopping to listen for any sign of movement inside. Both men could feel their hearts beating a little faster in their chests now; they knew that they could be walking into a trap, and they were sensitive to even the slightest sign that danger could be imminent.

Satisfied that all was quiet, AC took hold of the door. He glanced across at Bart, a nod of the head a signal that he should ready himself for action. He then pulled the heavy steel door from its hinges, before tossing it aside as if it weighed no more than an oversized piece of cardboard.

The two men rushed inside. They stood back to back, their bodies braced for attack as their eyes darted all around, trying to identify any potential foes.

"Clear!" shouted Bart, the tension audible in his voice.

"Clear!" responded AC. The two men relaxed a little; they were safe, at least for now.

The warehouse was cavernous, its size seemingly magnified by its emptiness. Light filtered in from skylights above them, but revealed nothing of any apparent interest, save for a single table located about thirty feet from where they stood. Both men instantly sensed that something was not quite right; the table's location, exactly in the centre of the building, seemed too deliberate, as if it was meant to draw their attention.

"Cover me," said AC simply, before he began jogging purposefully towards the table. As he moved he remained alert to even the slightest movement. There was none, but as he approached his destination he felt increasingly uneasy; he didn't know why, but something within him was telling him that danger was close...

The table was empty, save for a tiny piece of electrical equipment. AC's gut turned over as his worst fears were confirmed; it was Victor's Comlink, a tiny light on its side indicating that its distress signal had been activated.

AC looked around. All was silent; there was no sign of Victor, or of a struggle. What had happened? How had the Comlink got there? He had no answers, but he sensed that soon he'd learn the truth of what had happened to his friend.

"Someone's got him, yeah?"

AC turned, to find Bart at his side. The teenager, unable to contain his curiosity, had followed him to the table. He stared grimly at the Comlink, immediately understanding its significance.

"I'm afraid Victor Stone will not be joining us."

A man's voice filled the warehouse, disturbing the eerie stillness. Both men wheeled to their left, their bodies tensing as their eyes searched for the threat. For a split second they could not find it, their eyes flipping from left to right in anticipation of an imminent assault.

"I've been expecting you boys – in fact, I'm surprised it has taken you this long to find me."

The voice was coming from above them. They looked up, to find the figure of a man standing high on a raised walkway. Silhouetted against the light cast by one of the windows, they struggled to make him out in any detail; he appeared to be dressed in some sort of uniform, but did not seem to be carrying any obvious weapon.

"Where's Victor?" asked AC, his voice strong and clear. After all the hours of nervous waiting and uncertainty, part of him was relieved that at last he could confront an enemy that was real, and not imagined.

"Assuming the role of leader, Curry? Worried that you might not be able to handle it?" taunted the man, beginning to walk slowly down the length of the walkway. He appeared relaxed, as if he were in complete control; if it was an act to unsettle the two young heroes who stood below, it was working.

"But you have no choice but to step up, do you? Not with the Green Arrow sunning himself on that island paradise of his."

The two heroes exchanged glances. They said nothing, but inside each understood the full meaning of what had just been said. The man who faced them was no ordinary foe; he knew their secrets, and he knew that Oliver was the Green Arrow.

"You're wondering how I know Oliver's little secret? I know everything about you boys – _everything_. I know about your backgrounds, your abilities, your weaknesses – hell, I even know what juice you like to have with your eggs in the morning. I make it a point to do my homework, as your friend Victor learnt to his cost."

"Where's Victor? What have you done to him?" asked AC, trying to mask his growing sense of unease.

"Stone? I've done what I was paid to do – I handed him over to my client," replied the man, who now began his descent down the iron steps from the walkway. He walked slowly, deliberately, with every step of his heavy boots reverberating coldly through the still air.

"Client? Who – who are you working for?"

"All in good time, Curry," said the man, at last reaching the foot of the steps. "You'll be meeting him soon enough."

The three men now squared up against each other across the open floor of the warehouse. In contrast to their opponent, who exuded an air of irresistible confidence, Bart and AC were on edge, their bodies tense and ready for action. They could see their adversary a little more clearly now. He stood well over six feet tall, and it was clear even from some distance away that he was extremely well built; his chest was broad and strong, and his arms appeared as thick as his legs. His face was that of a man approaching middle age, with scars a visible sign of battles of the past. He cut an imposing figure, but the two men who faced him remained puzzled; apparently unarmed, they could see no way that this man could have taken down a man of Victor's abilities. Unless, of course, he had abilities himself...

"So are we going to do this?" he said at last, a hint of impatience in his voice. It was as if their clash – and its outcome – was preordained.

"You think you can take us?" said Bart, his confidence returning as he realised that the man really was unarmed. "Man, you chose the wrong guys to pick a fight with – we are _so_ going to kick your ass!"

"I _know_ I can take you," replied the man simply, fixing the teenager with an unblinking stare.

"Well then give it your best shot, sucker!"

Suddenly, and without warning, Bart seemed to disappear. At the same time AC began to charge towards the other man, his features fixed and resolute. It was a move the two men had practised many times in training, and such was their understanding of each other that there was no need for them to communicate; the scenario was clear, and so the line of attack obvious. AC would distract the man with a frontal attack, whilst Bart would superspeed to his rear and take him out from behind. A simple plan, but it had worked many times before – there was every reason to expect that it would work again now.

But then something happened – something that was not part of the plan. The man, who until that point had done everything so deliberately, suddenly sprang into life. He reached down towards his belt, before hurling something metallic out to his side. There was a cry of pain, and then a dull thud. AC looked to his right, and to his horror saw Bart lying motionless on the ground.

It had all happened in the blink of an eye. Bart had been hit! It didn't seem possible, but the boy who moved faster than anyone else on the planet had been knocked out by a missile which had found its mark with breathtaking accuracy. Who was this guy? What the hell was happening?

That was the last clear thought to pass through AC's mind. A piercing, high pitched noise suddenly sounded in his head, piercing his thoughts with such intensity it was as if someone had stabbed a knife straight into the centre of his brain. He fell to his knees, his hands covering his ears in a desperate attempt to shield himself from the agony that was now scything through his mind.

_A sonic pulse – he's got a sonic pulse weapon!_

Wracked with pain, AC fell over onto the floor. He lay writhing in agony, his legs kicking out pointlessly in a desperate show of resistance. He pressed his hands harder against his head, trying vainly to keep the sound at bay; blood seeped through his fingers as his ears began to bleed, his face distorted by the excruciating agony of a silent scream...

He looked up. There, towering over him, stood the man. Through the tears of pain that filled his eyes, AC could just make out a small device clasped in his right hand.

"I warned you, boy – I do my homework," he said. AC opened his mouth to speak, but it was too late; a swift kick to the head rendered him unconscious.

Slade stood for a moment, surveying his handiwork. A few feet away Bart lay face down on the ground. The steel ball that had knocked him out had rolled to a halt over by the steps that he had walked down less than a minute earlier. The boy was quick, but not quick enough; a few hours of practise and Slade's reflexes were more than enough to bring the cocky teen to heel.

And then there was AC.

Slade stared down at his helpless victim. After the agonies of just moments before, he now seemed strangely calm, his eyes closed as if he were asleep. The boy was strong, just as his file had indicated; beneath the form fitting spandex of his costume powerful, well toned muscles could be seen, the product of many hours spent training in the gym. He was good looking, too; the square jaw, the flawless complexion, the close cropped blond hair – he was every inch the perfect hero. A worthy adversary, there was no doubt about it – and that was why Slade felt almost disappointed. Sure, everything had gone to plan – he expected nothing less. But something was missing. He'd wanted more of a challenge, more of a sense of risk. These were the boys of the Justice League, after all – he didn't expect them to succumb so easily. He wanted the thrill of a real contest – a contest where he could best the blond boy who lay before him in open combat.

He glanced at his watch.

It was 13:24.

Luthor's team was due to arrive at 18:00. That gave him over four hours – more than enough time for what he had planned.

He had only just started to play with these boys. Now the game would really begin.

* * *

"_And that is why I am now making an appeal to the people of Metropolis. If you know anything about the Green Arrow – anything at all – please let the authorities know. This man must be stopped, before it's too late."_

Oliver stared at the screen of his laptop, a frown etched deep into his forehead. He'd played the footage of the press conference five times now, and each time his sense of unease had grown. The last thing he'd expected when he'd logged on to check out the news back in Metropolis was to find that his alter ego had gone from hero to public enemy number one over night. Where had that tape of the Green Arrow robbing that vault come from? It had been staged, but it had been staged with considerable skill; just the sort of images to lend credibility to the ridiculous charges levelled at him by Hoskins. He was being set up, but by whom?

Hoskins was an obvious candidate, of course. Metropolis's DA was as crooked as they come, and allegations of bribery and corruption had swirled around him for a long time. He was a smooth talker, however, and whenever a scandal had come close to him he had always managed somehow to slither away to safety. He was an example of the city at its worst; a careerist who would stop at nothing to make his way up the greasy ladder of success. When at last there was clear evidence of his involvement in some rotten real estate deals Oliver had seized on the chance to bring him down. The full force of Queen Industries had been placed behind a campaign to expose him, and, although he had survived, he was now so damaged that anyone who was anyone in the city knew that he was finished – a dead man walking.

Until now. Oliver knew that Hoskins' allegations against the Green Arrow would propel the DA once more onto the front pages. All the allegations of dirty business deals and bribes from the big crime bosses would be forgotten in the blaze of publicity that would accompany his assault on the integrity of the Archer. Hoskins' political career would be resurrected, and once more he would be able to pose as the people's champion. It had already started; although Oliver hated to admit it, Hoskins had performed well at the news conference. He had a talent for demagoguery, and it was clear from the reaction of the assembled journalists that he already had them eating out of the palm of his hand.

It was obvious what was happening. Hoskins was rebuilding his career – and he was rebuilding it on the ruins of the Green Arrow's reputation.

But still something didn't feel quite right. Hoskins was a sharp operator, but why had he targeted the Archer? And the tape, the so-called evidence of the Green Arrow's involvement in a series of crimes – that all took careful planning, as well as considerable resources. Was it really credible that Hoskins was acting alone? Instinctively Oliver felt that there was something more going on, that behind Hoskins there were other forces at work, forces that had a more personal reason for destroying the city's hero. There was no shortage of candidates, of course; in sweeping the streets clean of organised crime the Green Arrow had made a lot of enemies. But who was it? Who was pulling Hoskins' strings?

Whatever the truth, Oliver knew he was in trouble. Whilst he did not doubt for a moment that his secret identity remained intact, if he didn't act fast then when he returned to Metropolis his days as a crimefighter could be numbered. But he needed intelligence – he needed to know more about what he was facing. Much to his frustration, Watchtower was not responding to his calls. He wasn't unduly concerned by this; AC had checked in just a couple of hours earlier, and there had been no hint of any trouble. He was probably already out there, trying to find out more about what lay behind Hoskins' dramatic press conference. AC would be in touch soon, but in the meantime he was left to wait, and to worry. He felt frustrated, but there was nothing he could do. Unless...

"I can't believe how clear the water is here!"

Oliver looked up, to find Chloe walking through the large doors which opened out directly onto the beach. Droplets of water glistened on her skin, and her smile seemed to light up the room; rarely had she looked so radiant, and so perfectly happy.

"You're not working, are you?" she asked, feigning a frown of disapproval. "I'm sure Queen Industries can survive a few more days without its impossibly good looking CEO."

"Just checking my emails," said Oliver quickly, closing down the screen on his computer. He knew that eventually he would have to tell Chloe what was happening back in Metropolis, but it could wait a few more hours. She looked so relaxed – more relaxed, in fact, than he had ever seen her. Why ruin that, when he didn't yet know exactly what was going on? He wanted to enjoy her like this for just a little bit longer, before the latest crisis to overtake them could be ignored no longer.

"I'm going to take a shower," said Chloe playfully, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "You know how I get lonely in showers, Oliver – I expect my hero to keep me safe in there."

She began to make her way towards the shower room, glancing at him over her shoulder as she did so. It was clear what she had in mind, and Oliver, eager for one last escape from whatever it was that was waiting for him back in Metropolis, was keen to oblige.

"I'll be with you in a minute," he replied. He waited until she exited the room, and then picked up his cell from the table.

Hoskins might be seeking to destroy his alter ego, but Oliver had an ace up his sleeve; a man on the inside, a man he knew that he could trust implicitly.

He dialled the number, and waited for it to connect.

"_Hello?"_

A man's voice answered.

"Dean? It's Oliver. I guess you know why I'm calling."

* * *

AC's head throbbed. His mouth felt parched, a lack of water taking its toll on the young hero. Every muscle in his body seemed to ache, but it was the incessant waves of pain that pulsed through his skull that caused him the most discomfort. His head was spinning, and for a moment he dared not move; the dizziness was nauseating, and he did not trust himself even to open his eyes.

How long had he been out? He had no idea. The last thing he remembered was their attacker looming over him, a look of malevolent satisfaction writ large on his face. Who was that guy? He'd taken out Victor, and now both he and Bart – clearly this was no ordinary thug with a score to settle. AC cursed himself that he had not been more careful. He should have known it was a trap – he should have known to take more precautions. He'd badly underestimated his opponent, and now both he and Bart were paying the price. If only he'd called Oliver – if only he'd called Clark...

The spinning in his head was easing now, and he could think more clearly. Where was he? And Bart – what had happened to Bart? He knew that he was lying on a hard floor, and that his arms and legs were bound, but more than that it was impossible to tell. AC knew that he could avoid it no longer – taking a deep breath, he forced open his eyes.

The room was dark, and so it was difficult to make much out at first. A variety of equipment seemed to be laid out a few feet in front of where he lay. AC peered through the gloom, trying to make it out – he could see iron manacles, lengths of chain, and various other devices that seemed to come straight out of some medieval torture chamber. His eyes then fell on the structure that stood a little further back; a massive St Andrew's cross, towering ominously above him.

AC shuddered. It was clear that his captor had a sideline in torture, and he had a terrible feeling that unless he could figure out something fast, it would not be long before he was going to find himself staring in his own private Saw movie.

Where was Bart? AC strained his neck, but try as he might he could not see his friend. A sense of dread swept over him. What had he got the teenager involved in? If something had happened to him, he would never forgive himself...

It was at that moment he felt it. Drops of water, falling from somewhere above his head. For a split second his heart leapt with joy, not quite believing that salvation could be quite so near at hand. He could feel the droplets running down his forehead, but something was wrong; the droplets felt warm, and they seemed to be too viscous for water...

One reached his mouth. He captured it with his tongue, and it was only then that he understood.

The warm metallic taste was not water – it was blood.

Filled with panic and disgust, AC spat it out. He rolled over onto his back, to be greeted by a sight that no nightmare could ever have prepared him for. There, suspended high above him, was Bart. The young hero's arms were chained to a hook in the ceiling, so that he hung like a piece of meat in an abattoir. Even in the half light AC could see that he had been badly beaten; his costume was torn, and his face swollen with bruises and cuts. A thick rag had been stuffed into his mouth so that he could not speak, but the tears that rolled down Bart's face, and the look of utter terror that burned in those once confident eyes, told their own story.

Shock soon gave way to anger. AC strained at his bonds, determined to break free so that he could save his friend. To his surprise, the rope gave way immediately, as weak as a piece of string.

_He had not dried out – he still had his powers!_

The young hero did not pause to give thanks for his good fortune. He leapt to his feet, conscious of the adrenalin that now surged through his body. Their captor had not done his homework after all – he'd left him alone before the effects of his long swim in the canal had worn off. Well, he'd pay for that mistake – and he'd pay for what he'd done to Bart...

AC looked at his friend, who stared wide eyed back at him. He needed to find a way of getting him down, but none was immediately obvious. He then saw the source of the blood that had dropped onto his forehead. Bart's ankles were soaked in blood, as if someone had deliberately cut into the boy's flesh to cripple him...

"Go ahead – cut him down. After what I've done to that kid's feet, he'll be lucky if he ever walks again."

AC spun round. There, just a few feet away, stood Slade; it was clear that he had been watching AC's every move.

"You sick bastard! I'll kill you for this!" snarled AC.

"Really? I'd like to see you try, pretty boy!"

AC lunged forwards, barrelling into the other man and hurling him against a wall. He punched Slade three or four times in the gut, causing him to double over in pain.

"What have you done with Victor, you twisted piece of shit!" demanded AC, breathless with rage. He grabbed Slade by the hair, pulling his head up so that he could see his face.

"That all you got, boy!" gasped Slade, smiling broadly. "I thought you were the big tough hero, Aquaman. The kid there put up more of a fight than you!"

AC roared with anger. He grabbed Slade and lifted him into the air, before hurling him across the room. Slade landed heavily on his back; AC prepared himself for more, but the other man did not get up.

AC stood for a moment, his heart pounding furiously in his chest. Anger consumed him – anger at what Slade had done to Bart, anger at Victor's still unknown fate, anger at himself, that he had allowed this psycho to goad him, to get under his skin. But at least now it was over – and he was looking forward to making his fallen adversary pay for what he had done.

Laughing.

Someone was laughing.

Amazed, AC looked over at where Slade lay. The man's chest was heaving, his booming laugh filling the confined space of the basement. It was an unsettling sound, as chilling as it was unexpected; it was as if Slade had enjoyed the beating he had just received, as if he had taken pleasure in it...

AC walked over to where the other man lay. He had won, and yet he was afraid; there was something about that laugh, as if it knew something he didn't...

"Well done, boy – well done!" said Slade, looking up at the young hero who now stood over him. "I knew you wouldn't disappoint me! But the time for games is over now – it's time for you to learn who is your master."

AC had heard enough. He knelt down beside Slade, and balled his hand into a fist. Staring the other man straight in the eyes, he aimed what he knew would be a knockout punch at his head. His fist flew through the air, only to be halted short of its target. AC looked, to find his punch blocked by Slade's hand.

"I told you, boy – the time for games is over."

Crippling pain coursed through AC's hand. He tried to pull it away, but Slade gripped him like a vice. It was as if Slade were actually crushing the bones inside AC's hand; he could only look on in wide-eyed terror as the other man got to his feet, never once easing up the pressure on his prey. This time it was AC's turn to fall to his knees; the agony was almost unendurable, and he could not help but let out an anguished cry of pain.

"That's right, boy, you cry out!" said Slade, exultant. _This_ was what he wanted – the confrontation that he had longed for. He had taken on Aquaman in open combat, and he had won; now it was time to press home his advantage.

"Do you submit, boy?" he roared, twisting AC's arm so that the young man was forced to pirouette like a puppet on a string.

"Go to hell!" gasped AC, tears of pain running down his cheeks.

Slade laughed. "No, my friend. You're the one who is going to hell – but not before I've finished with you!"

Suddenly Slade let go of AC's hand. The respite was shortlived; Slade quickly rained down blows on the young hero's head, pummelling him with unrestrained ferocity. AC tried to protect himself, but he could not; his right hand was useless, and his earlier fight with Slade had exhausted him. Slade had done his homework, after all; he had known exactly how much reserves of energy AC would have to assault him, and when to launch his counterattack.

"Had enough, beach boy?" taunted Slade, at last bringing his attack to a halt. AC could do no more than groan in response, before rolling over onto his side.

For a few precious seconds there was calm. AC thought about Bart, about Victor, about Oliver – about how much they meant to him, and how much he had let them down. He had been a fool to go it alone – and now they would all pay with their lives.

Suddenly he was aware of something thick and metallic being wrapped around his neck. He felt himself being pulled upwards; desperately he clawed at the chain that now threatened to asphyxiate him, but with only one good hand it was pointless.

Slade pulled the chain tight around the young man's neck. He could hear AC choking, desperately gasping for that last breath of air.

"Don't worry, boy – I'm not going to kill you," he whispered into AC's ear. "But I am going to make you suffer – suffer in a way you can't even begin to imagine!"

"Who...who...are you?" croaked AC.

"I am your worst nightmare, boy – I am Deathstoke!"

* * *

Deathstroke strikes! I know some of you wanted an action chapter, so I hope this hasn't disappointed you. I'm enjoying writing Slade - something about callous killers makes them great to write! LOL. AC and Bart are in BIG trouble - and it is going to get worse, a LOT worse.

Thanks to those of you who keep supporting me with your reviews. You know they mean the world to me, so please, do review if you can! Just a few words can be SO encouraging - please, please, please do let me know what you think!


	7. Chapter 7: No Escape

**Chapter Seven: No Escape**

Detective Dean Caruso sauntered across the lobby of City Hall, casually glancing to his left and right at the dozens of people who were heading in the opposite direction. It was six in the evening, and the last rush of office workers was making its way home. They barely spared him a second glance as he made his way towards the elevators, their faces telling countless stories of the frustrations and successes of a long working day. This was surprising, as it was not simply his direction of travel which made Dean stand out from the throng; dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a battered leather biker jacket, he did not seem to fit in with the sharp suits and expensive silk ties that surged past him. Dean didn't care; he knew this building well, and he was a man on a mission.

He was only in his late twenties, but already Dean Caruso was a rising star of the Metropolis Police Department. Twice he'd received awards for bravery, and a year earlier he'd made headlines when he'd rescued two young children from a psycho who'd lost it on the subway. He'd taken a bullet in the shoulder in saving their lives, but the publicity he'd received had made him something of a local celebrity. The Planet had done a feature on him, and there had been interviews on TV. A brave cop willing to put his life on the line, who just also happened to be drop-dead gorgeous - he was a human interest story just too good to miss.

Dean Caruso was a model cop; brave, honest and incorruptible. He was also a man with a secret: he knew the identity of the Green Arrow.

He'd first met Oliver a couple of months after he'd saved the kids on the subway. A sting operation had gone wrong, and he'd been made; cornered in an alley without backup, he'd found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. Just when he'd thought it was all over, from nowhere the Green Arrow had appeared, taking out five heavily armed men as if it were nothing more than a light workout. It had appeared to be all over, when one of the men had attacked Oliver from behind, pulling down his hood. Oliver had knocked him out with two well placed blows to the head, but it was too late; although the thug had not seen Oliver's face, Dean had.

Dean owed Oliver his life; there was no way he was going to expose him. Instead the two men struck up a friendship, forged by their common desire to rid the city of the crime that was eating away at its soul. They soon found that they could help each other; Oliver would tip Dean off every time he busted some criminals, and Dean supplied Oliver with intelligence from within the Police Department about what gangs were operating within the city. The result was something that both men gained from, and for Dean, the last few months had been the best of his professional career. For the first time he felt as if he was making a real difference, and the excitement of working clandestinely with the city's favorite crimefighter never failed to give him a kick.

Hoskins' news conference had, therefore, come as an unwelcome surprise. He didn't for a minute believe a word that the DA had said; Hoskins was a cockroach, and Dean himself had helped provide some of the inside knowledge Oliver needed to expose his crooked real estate deals. He'd broken into Hoskins' office to copy some incriminating files, but the evidence he'd found had not been enough to nail him. Now he was back, and trying to frame Oliver – and so for a second time, Dean was preparing to break in to the office of the city's District Attorney.

When Oliver had called him he hadn't hesitated; he was a friend, and he would do anything to help. It was Dean himself who'd suggested that he break into Hoskins' office again. Oliver had tried to talk him out of it, saying that it was too dangerous, but Dean had insisted; he'd done it once without being detected, and there was a real possibility that he might find something that would turn the tables. And so here he was, his heart beating a little harder in his chest as he prepared to break the law to help his friend.

It was a short elevator ride to the floor where Hoskins had his office. All appeared deserted, just as he'd expected. Hoskins was not simply corrupt, but he was lazy; he normally went home at four thirty. Checking that he was indeed alone, Dean made his way along the corridor towards his target, taking care to keep close to the left hand wall. Opposite Hoskins' door he paused. He looked above him, where a security camera stood, maintaining a silent vigil. Pulling a small canister from his jacket pocket, he aimed it at the camera; a short blast was enough to put it out of action. He estimated he had about ten minutes before anyone came to investigate the malfunction, more than enough time for him to do what he had to do.

A few seconds later and he was inside the office, the lock on the door presenting no difficulties to someone who spent many hours around professional criminals. He made his way straight over to the desk, and began rifling through the files that Hoskins had left strewn over its surface. He didn't know what he was looking for, but he knew that once he found it, his instincts would tell him he was on to something.

Five minutes passed, and he had drawn a blank. He was about to focus his attention on a nearby filing cabinet, when a piece of paper shoved carelessly into the back of a file caught his eye. It was a bank statement, dated just a couple of days before, and it showed that Hoskins had just received a payment of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Dean's antennae were aroused; a failed DA serving out his term did not receive that kind of money for no reason. Perhaps it was a payment for services rendered, maybe by the person or persons who were working with Hoskins to discredit the Arrow...

Excited at his apparent breakthrough, Dean reached for his cell; in a matter of seconds he was connected.

"Oliver – it's me, Dean," he said, the nervous energy obvious in his voice. "Listen, I think I've found something. Hoskins received a payment a couple of days ago – some company named LL Tech just gave him one hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

"Give me the phone – and don't say another word."

Dean almost jumped out of his skin. He didn't know what shocked him more – the woman's voice, whispering so calmly just inches from his ear, or the press of what was certainly the barrel of a gun against the small of his back. He froze, for a moment neither able to speak or move.

"Do as I say," insisted the voice coldly. "Now give me the phone, or I will kill you."

The woman was calm and controlled, but the words were said with such absolute conviction that Dean knew that whoever had got the drop on him was in deadly earnest. He could hear Oliver's voice at the other end of the line, asking what was going on, whether or not he was okay, but he was powerless to answer; slowly, reluctantly, he did as he was told, and held the phone out to his side. Quickly it was taken from him, and with the touch of a button his connection to Oliver was terminated.

"Now raise your hands, and turn around – slowly," ordered the woman.

Again Dean had no choice but to comply. As he turned he found that the woman was not alone; she was accompanied by two thick-set goons in suits, as well as Hoskins himself.

"Take his gun, and tie him up," ordered the woman authoritatively. The two men stepped forward, one extracting the gun from the holster strapped against Dean's body whilst the other roughly pulled his arms behind his back, before binding his wrists together with some zip ties.

"Dean Caruso, caught breaking and entering – I have to tell you, detective, this is not going to do your chances of promotion any good at all," said Hoskins, unable to suppress a broad grin as the two men took Dean by the arms and dragged him forwards. "But then you are a man of surprises, aren't you, Dean? All these months that we thought you were a regular guy, and all the time you were passing information to that freak friend of yours, the Green Arrow."

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about, Hoskins," said Dean, aware as he spoke that he didn't sound very convincing.

"Don't lie to me, you piece of shit!" replied the other man, slapping Dean hard across the face. "You don't think I know about what you've been doing? About how you sold me out to Oliver Queen by passing him that information about those real estate deals? Well your double crossing days are over, detective – you made the biggest mistake of your life when you told that billionaire son-of-a-bitch that you'd come here to try to save his ass!"

A look of confusion flashed across Dean's face. How did Hoskins know what he'd said to Oliver? The call must have been intercepted. But if Hoskins had listened in to their conversation, then he must know everything – he must know that Oliver is the Green Arrow!

Dean didn't have time to process this last thought. The grip of the two men on his arms tightened, and suddenly the woman appeared in front of him. He was half aware that she was holding something in her right hand, before he felt a thick cloth being pressed over his mouth and nostrils.

Chloroform!

He tried to pull away, struggling to get free as the woman continued to press relentlessly down on his face, replacing the clean air with the noxious fumes of the chemical soaked rag. It was an unequal fight, and within a few seconds the detective's head began to spin. Soon his resistance faded, until at last he slumped forwards, lifeless in the grip of his captors.

Cohen continued to hold the cloth over Dean's mouth for a few seconds longer, not wishing to take any chances. Finally she removed it from his face, the man's head lolling on to his chest. Carefully she sealed the cloth up inside a clear plastic bag, before she reached out and grabbed Dean's hair. She lifted his head, studying him for a moment, as if to confirm that he was indeed out for the count. He was a good looking guy; if anything, even more handsome in the flesh than his photos had suggested. Yes, she would enjoy getting to know Detective Dean Caruso over the next couple of days – Slade wasn't the only one who could have fun with their captives.

"Take him down to the parking lot via the service elevator – and make sure no one sees you," she ordered finally, allowing Dean's head to fall once more. The two men lifted the detective's body up, before beginning to drag it towards the door.

"What are you going to do with him?" asked Hoskins, watching as the young detective was hauled away.

"Lex has plans for Detective Caruso," replied Cohen. "Let's just say that in a couple of days' time the city won't just be mourning the loss of one of its heroes – it will be mourning the loss of two."

* * *

The first thing that AC was aware of was the pain. It seemed to envelope his whole body, waves of unrelenting, pulsating agony coursing through every muscle, every fibre of his being. Unconsciousness had been a blessing, for now, as his slowly came to, there could be no escape from the terrible effects of the beating that he had endured. He had no idea how long he had been out, but so merciless and sustained had been Slade's attack it felt as if it could have been just a few seconds before. It was not just the pain of his physical wounds that filled his mind, but also feelings of bewilderment and shock. Images of the confrontation with his mysterious attacker flashed into his mind; the immense strength of the man, the sadistic pleasure he had seen in his eyes as he had rained blow after blow down on his head, Bart's terror as he hung so helplessly from those chains. And then there was that laugh – that terrible, mocking, laugh. Had he ever heard a more chilling sound in his life? It was as if the devil himself had taken human form to taunt him. Terrible, nightmarish images, but AC knew only too well that this was no nightmare; this was all too real. What had the man called himself? Deathstroke? Even his name seemed calculated to inspire fear in all who heard it.

And AC was afraid – perhaps more afraid than he had ever been in his entire life.

He had been captured before, of course. But on those occasions he had been taken out with a tranquiliser dart, or he had been beaten whilst his powers were not at full strength. This time had been different. He had confronted a man whilst in full possession of his powers, and he had been defeated. And not just defeated – he had been humiliated. The man had played with him, allowed him to think that he was winning, before striking back with such ferocious strength AC had been made to appear as weak as a baby. Who was this guy? Who was it who could take his fist and with one hand – _one hand_ – crush his bones like that were no more than rotten twigs? Until now, he had only met one other man with such abilities: Clark Kent. To find someone with comparable powers, but who was driven to use them not in the cause of good but in the cause of evil, was truly terrifying.

And he was now at this monster's mercy, and with no obvious means of escape.

For a second time, AC steeled himself for what he knew must come next. Braced for what he might find, he forced open his eyes.

The room was the same as before, dimly lit by a single bulb. But this time he was seeing things from a different angle; he was not lying bound on the floor, but stood upright. He looked upwards and to his right, to find that his arm stretched out at a forty-five degree angle above him; a glance to his left confirmed that his other arm was similarly placed. Thick steel manacles had been placed around his wrists, holding him fast to a wooden frame. He glanced down, to discover that his legs were similarly shackled, splayed out once again at angles of forty-five degrees.

AC understood immediately. He had been shackled to the St Andrew's cross; like a victim in a horror movie, he now had to await his fate.

He pulled at his restraints, hoping that as before his captor had made a mistake and left him with the means of escape. They did not move; this time he would not be able to slip free of his bonds. He was tired, and the injuries that he had sustained were starting to take their toll. Worse, he was aware of the skin on his arms beginning to blister and peel, a sign that at last the length of time he had been away from the water was beginning to sap his strength.

Resigned, at least for now, to his captivity, he looked out into the room that was now his prison. It was then that it hit him – Bart! The chains that had held him still hung from the ceiling, but the teenager was gone. Panicking, AC looked to his left and right, desperately trying to find his friend. A few seconds of searching confirmed his initial fears; Bart was missing.

At that moment AC heard the sound of a key turning in a lock. He strained his head to the right, hoping, vainly, that it might be Bart or Clark, coming to his rescue. Again he was to be disappointed; there, silhouetted against the light of the room beyond, stood his captor.

"Sleep well, boy?" he said, advancing slowly into the room.

"Where's Bart?" demanded AC, trying to keep his voice calm and strong.

"Still playing at being the leader, Curry? Is this what you think Oliver would do – put the safety of his team mates first?"

"I asked you a question – what have you done with Bart?"

"So what do you think your leather clad boss is going to make of your first mission as team leader?" asked Slade, coming to a halt directly in front of his captive. "Not been a great success, has it? You all chained up there, and your friend missing in action."

"Where's Bart, you son-of-a-bitch!" snapped AC, Slade's goading finally getting under his skin.

"What did you call me, boy?" hissed Slade, reaching out and grabbing AC's face in a pincer grip. He squeezed the young hero's jaw hard, so that his lips pursed into a grotesque perversion of a kiss.

"You will show me some respect, boy!" he continued, still holding AC tightly as his eyes flashed with rage. "You think you are the big hero, but you are nothing, do you hear? Nothing! I am in control here, and you will learn what it means to obey!"

The two men stared at each other for a moment, Slade like a predator about to devour his prey. He continued to press down hard on AC's jaw, determined to assert his power over the younger man. It was not enough to subdue the hero physically; he wanted his mental and emotional submission too. And in AC's eyes he found what he was looking for: cold, sickening fear.

At last he let go, AC gasping in relief.

"Please," he said, the defiance of earlier gone from his voice. "Do what you like with me – just don't hurt Bart, okay?"

"Your friend is gone – you won't be seeing him again," replied Slade coldly, enjoying the effect his words had on his captive. AC slumped forwards slightly, as if this latest revelation had robbed him of yet another sliver of hope.

"Why are you doing this?" asked AC quietly, still staring at the floor.

"It's what I do," replied Slade. "I kill people – for a price. My client is paying good money to have me eliminate you Justice League boys."

AC looked up. "And who is your client? Who's paying you to do this to us?"

Slade smiled. "I told you, AC – all in good time. You'll be meeting him personally in eight hours' time, but until then you and I have got some time to kill. What should we do, do you think?"

"How about a movie? I hear they're showing Psycho a few blocks from here – should make you feel right at home."

"You're a funny guy, AC," said Slade, laughing at the other man's quip. "I like that – I really do. But no – I'm afraid I've got something very different in mind."

Slade stood silently for a moment, allowing the full meaning of his words to sink in. He then turned away from AC, and walked slowly over to the table which stood on the far side of the room. Out of AC 's line of vision, he began to examine the various objects laid out on its surface. He said nothing, and as the seconds passed AC could feel his heart beating faster and faster in his chest. His sweat soaked costume felt cold and clammy, and his mouth dried up in anticipation of what was to come. Instinctively he knew what Slade had in store for him, but the agony of waiting for him to reveal his hand was almost unbearable.

At last Slade turned, the blade of a knife glinting in his hand. He said nothing, but simply walked back to where he had stood before, directly in front of his powerless prisoner. AC lifted his head up, determined to be brave; whatever torments Slade had in store, he was damned if he was going to give him the satisfaction of appearing cowed and afraid now that the moment of truth had finally arrived.

Slade held the knife out in front of him for a moment, before placing its tip against the young hero's gut. He held it there, pressing the point against the hard wall of muscle as he studied AC's face for any sign of fear. There was none, save for the droplets of sweat which rolled silently down his forehead.

"Are you afraid, boy?" he whispered, his eyes sparkling with anticipation. "Because you should be – you should be very afraid. I'm going to hurt you, Aquaman – I'm going to hurt you so much you will wish you had never crawled out of that ocean you love so much."

Then, in one sudden action, he hooked the blade under AC's tunic and pulled upwards. The spandex fell away as the knife made short work of the costume, leaving AC's rock hard abs and the expanse of his pectoral muscles exposed and vulnerable.

"Impressive," said Slade, his eyes surveying AC's toned physique. "All that time in the water has its rewards, doesn't it? But take you away from it for more than a couple of hours and your power ebbs away as surely as the tide."

AC snarled at his tormentor, his jaw fixed in a picture of grim determination. He pulled again at the chains that held him, knowing as he did so that it was a futile gesture; there was no escape from the madman who stood before him.

"Struggle all you want, boy," said Slade, a twisted smile on his face. "You know I'm going to torture you, however much you tug at those shackles."

He turned, and walked over once more to the table. Putting the knife down, he reached across and picked up two metal rods, each connected by a long wire to what appeared to be some sort of generator. Slade casually flicked a switch, and the generator hummed ominously into life.

"You know all about torture, of course," said Slade, as if he were carrying on a normal conversation. "All those days you spent locked up in Lex Luthor's prison. You broke then – but it took days to crush that spirit of yours. The tough guy hero, who held out as long as he could."

He had walked back to his position in front of AC, brandishing the two metal rods in front of him. AC's blood ran cold; he knew what Slade had in store for him, and the crackle of electricity which arced between the rods just confirmed it.

"I don't have days, boy," said Slade quietly, holding the rods within an inch of AC's face. "I've only got eight hours. But I think that will be long enough, don't you? It's terrible what ten thousand volts can do to a man – I know, I've seen it. Even big guys like you – they all end up weeping, crying out for their mothers because they want it to stop. But I won't stop, AC – I won't stop until I've stripped away the hero and revealed the pathetic little boy that lurks beneath all those muscles of yours."

AC did not reply. Instead he spat in Slade's face, a last gesture of defiance from a man who knew he was about to endure the unendurable.

Slade slowly wiped the saliva from his cheek. He then reached out and tore the remnants of AC's tunic from his body, so that his upper body was completely exposed.

"You shouldn't have done that, boy," he said, placing the rods half an inch from the young hero's chest. "You really shouldn't have done that at all."

He paused for a second, savouring the fear that he could see in the other man's eyes. Then, without hesitation, he thrust the rods against AC's exposed flesh.

AC threw his head back and screamed in agony, a cry of such guttural intensity it seemed to come from the very depths of hell itself.

Slade smiled. He was going to enjoy this – he was going to enjoy this a lot.

* * *

"Dean – Dean, can you hear me?"

Oliver held his cell to his ear, straining to hear what was going on at the other end of the line. Just seconds before he had been talking to his friend, sharing in his excitement at what he thought was a breakthrough. Then everything had gone quiet. He was certain that Dean was still on the other end of the line, but for some reason he was no longer answering; more ominously, he thought he could hear the faint sound of another voice in the background. Instinctively he knew that something was wrong, and that the young detective was in very real danger.

"Dean, are you okay? Is there someone there with you? Dean, talk to me..."

The connection was cut.

"What's happened? Is Dean okay?" asked Chloe, who sat anxiously by Oliver's side.

"I don't know – we were cut off," said Oliver, his concern obvious as he slipped his cell inside his jacket.

"Did he say anything? Why did he cut you off?"

"I don't think it was Dean who cut us off," said Oliver, preoccupied by what he had just heard. "Chloe, Dean's in trouble – I think someone found him in Hoskins' office."

"Oh no!" said Chloe, taken aback by this latest piece of bad news.

"I should never have let him go there, Chloe – if anything happens to him, I'll never forgive myself."

Chloe reached out and took Oliver by the arm, snuggling up close so that their bodies touched. She could see that he was worried; she was too, but she wanted to reassure him, to show him he wasn't alone.

"He'll be okay, Ollie," she said, trying to sound hopeful, even as inside she was fearing the worst. "Dean's a lucky guy – he'll find a way out, I know he will."

Oliver forced a smile, before leaning across and kissing Chloe gently on the crown of her head. It was a simple gesture, but it spoke volumes; he loved her, and at that moment he was glad to have her by his side. He was amazed by the strength she had shown since he had told her about what was happening back in Metropolis. He had feared how she might react; after all she had been through, would she be able to cope with another crisis that could threaten their future together? Of course, he needn't have worried. This was Chloe Sullivan, after all; not simply the most beautiful woman in the world, but also someone blessed with incredible inner courage. How lucky he was to have found her! Oliver knew that whatever might lie in store for them, it didn't matter – they had each other, and that was more than enough to overcome any disaster, big or small.

That they would need each other more than ever in the days ahead was now all too clear. Things had gone from bad to worse over the previous few hours, culminating in Dean's sudden disappearance. AC had not checked in as expected, and when Oliver had tried to raise Bart and Victor he had been met with only silence. All three members of his team had fallen off the grid – and he had no idea why.

"What are you going to do now?" asked Chloe.

"We've got no alternative, Chloe – we've got to go back to Metropolis."

* * *

An earlier than normal update this week - I'm going through a phase when the words seem to be coming easily. Hope you enjoyed this one - pretty intense, I know, but did you expect anything else from me? Dean Caruso is a character I've invented, but he has a key part to play, as you'll see over the next few chapters; if you want to visualise him, think of Peter Facinelli playing Van Ray in Fastlane (if you don't know the show check it out - Peter is everyone's idea of what a cool cop should be).

The next chapter is going to be big. AC's torment will come to an end (but not in a good way), we'll find out what happened to Victor and Bart, and Lex will be back, revealing some of his plan. All this, and Oliver and Chloe heading back into danger - should be enough to keep you happy!

Thanks as always to my reviewers - you are simply AWESOME! Please, do leave a review if you can. I just came across the term "review whore," and I guess that's what I am! LOL. They do make a difference, believe me - knowing that you are out there is the one thing that keeps me going.


	8. Chapter 8: Screaming in the Darkness

**Chapter Eight: Screaming in the Darkness**

_**WARNING: Major AC whumpage ahead!**_

_He broke me._

It was the first clear thought that AC had as slowly his mind slid back towards reality. He could feel himself swinging gently from side to side, his arms stretched above him and secured to some thick steel manacles. He did not bother to open his eyes, as he was not yet ready to confront the reality of his continuing captivity. But as his sluggish mind began to recover, new images began to form in his head, images of what he had endured at the hands of his tormentor. The flashbacks were as vivid as they were disturbing, terrifying recollections that scarred his subconscious as surely as the black suppurating wounds that now disfigured his torso. One moment he could see Slade's face, his mouth twisted into a sickening smile as he pushed the rods into his chest. Then he would see his own face, as if somehow he had left his body and could see the excruciating agony that he had endured. And it wasn't just the images that haunted his mind. Why wouldn't the screaming stop? Why could he still hear his own pitiful cries, his pleas for mercy that were so callously ignored? And the smell – the smell of burning flesh that still seemed to permeate his every intake of breath. He had experienced hell on earth – and even now, long after it had ended, that hell would not give up its grip.

It had lasted for hours. Time and again he had passed out, only for his torturer to bring him round with a slap to the face. He had begged for mercy, begged for him to stop – but it was all to no avail. The man was enjoying himself too much – enjoying robbing him of every last remnant of his self-respect. He had seen it in his eyes – the twisted pleasure of a sadist who thrilled to see a grown man weep, a hero humbled. And AC had been humbled – he had been humbled so completely he knew that if he ever made it out of this nightmare alive he would never be the same again. It was this that tormented him the most, more even than the weeping wounds that now scared his chest as a permanent reminder of what he had suffered.

It had been more than eight hours of torture. It had been eight hours that had destroyed him, emotionally as well as physically. Arthur Curry might still be alive, but the hero that he had once been had not survived:

Aquaman was no more.

Muffled voices sounded somewhere above him. At last AC forced his eyes to open, and took in his new surroundings. He was no longer in the basement, but instead was in a small, well lit room. The walls were painted white, and appeared to be made out of some sort of metal. What was this place? Where had he been taken? He remembered the end of his ordeal. Three or four men had arrived; they had exchanged a few words with his captor, before taking him down from the cross and binding him hand and foot. He must have been drugged, because he had no memory of what came next, or how he came to be in this room.

_Room...this isn't a room. It's a cabin!_

The white metal walls, the door that was in fact a hatch; there was no doubt about it, he was indeed on board some sort of ship. And they were at sea - as he continued to sway gently back and forth he realised that his body was following the movement of a boat as it made its way through the waves that must be breaking against its sides, just a few feet from where he hung. What was going on? Where was he being taken? After the barren despair of a few moments earlier the realisation that he was so close to the water that could renew him once more lit a small flame of hope within his heart. Perhaps it wasn't all over, after all – perhaps he could escape and get to Oliver, and together they could save Bart and Victor...

More voices; something was going on up on deck. There was a loud banging sound, as if something had knocked against the side of the ship. And the engines – the engines that had accompanied his waking thoughts were suddenly silent. They had stopped, but why? Again AC could hear voices, as well as more sounds that he could not make out from the other side of the hull. Suddenly a cold, sickening feeling began to form in his gut, as he realised what might be going on. Hadn't his captor told him that he would meet the man behind all this soon enough? Perhaps now was that moment. Beads of sweat began to dribble down his forehead as he desperately tried to gather himself for what he sensed was now just a matter of seconds away. Whatever they had in store for him, he would soon find out.

A loud clanking sound came from the other side of the steel hatch. The wheel at its centre turned, and then it swung open to reveal the now unmistakable figure of Slade.

The two men stared silently at each for a moment. AC was desperate to show not even the slightest hint of fear; the man may have broken him hours earlier, but something within him still wanted to defy his jailer, show that something of the hero was still left after all that had been done to him. For his part, Slade wanted to take one last look at his captive, the once proud member of the Justice League that he had reduced to a pitiful shadow of his former self. He had tamed the mighty Aquaman, and the body that now hung helpless before him was nothing less than a living trophy, a reward for what he had accomplished.

"Time's up, boy," he sneered. "The man who's paid for all this is here, and he is real keen to meet you again."

_Again._ That word echoed in AC's mind. A slip of the tongue, or would he indeed recognise the man who was behind all this?

Slade pressed a button on the wall. The chains from which AC hung were released, and the young hero crashed to the floor, crying out in pain as his wounds made contact with the hard steel.

"That hurt, boy?" said Slade, casually kicking AC over onto his front. "Hell, this is a walk in the park compared to what my client has got in store for you."

AC tried to pull himself to his feet, but Slade's boot pressed against the small of his back caused him to collapse once more onto his stomach. He was exhausted, and could offer no resistance as felt Slade straddle him; his arms were pulled cruelly behind his back, before his wrists were manacled.

Slade stood up, satisfied that his captive was effectively restrained; so confident was he of his power over the young hero that he was certain a pair of handcuffs would be all that was required to keep AC in check.

"Get up," he ordered.

AC did not move.

"Get up!"

Slowly AC struggled to his feet, swaying momentarily as he fought to gain his balance. No sooner had he done this when he felt himself being grabbed from behind, his head pulled back so that he had to stare upwards into the eyes of his captor.

"Now I expect you to behave, boy," said Slade calmly, enjoying seeing the young man wince in pain as he tightened his grip on his short blond hair. "Any trouble, and I don't care what my client wants – I'll take you right back to my basement and we'll start up right where we left off. Would you like that, boy? Would you like me to hurt you again?"

AC swallowed hard, the whites of his eyes betraying the terror that he felt inside.

"Well?" repeated Slade, pulling still harder on AC's hair.

"No," gasped AC, his voice a shrunken shadow of the defiant young hero who had confronted Slade less than twelve hours earlier.

"No, what?" demanded Slade, pulling AC's head back still further, so that the veins stood out on the young man's neck.

"No, sir," came the reply. The words were barely audible, but both men knew they were enough; Slade had got what he wanted.

"That's better," said Slade, shoving AC's head so hard that the other man stumbled forwards a couple of paces, only just managing to stay on his feet. "Now move!"

AC glanced back at Slade, who was now pointing a gun in his direction. He then turned and stepped awkwardly through the hatch. Beyond it lay a narrow corridor, at the far end of which a set of steep steps could be seen. A shove from Slade indicated that that was to be his destination, and slowly he made his way towards them. As he walked once more he could feel a wave of fear beginning to well up deep inside him. What lay ahead? Could he find some way out, or was this really the end of the line? Whatever happened, he prayed that he could remain strong; if he was to face death, he wanted to face it like a hero. He would expurgate the memory of his humiliation back at the basement, the pleas for mercy, the tears that he had shed. Images of Oliver and the others flashed through his mind – for them, he would die as Aquaman.

AC reached the foot of the steps. He looked up, to see a clear blue sky above him; he could hear the waves now, and the cries of some seagulls. He was so close to his home, so tantalisingly close – perhaps there might still be chance...

"Up!" ordered Slade.

With difficulty, AC began to make his way up the steps. It took him three or four times as long as normal to make it to the top, but eventually he emerged into the sunlight, the warmth of a sea breeze like a balm to his abused body. Off to the right he caught a glimpse of the sea, the crests of the waves glinting in the hot summer sun. It looked so beautiful, so inviting – if he could just get to it, allow its life-giving waters to flow over him...

"Feeling homesick, boy?" said Slade, grabbing him by the back of the neck and guiding him away from the edge of the ship. "Don't worry – you'll soon have all the time in the world to look at your fishy friends."

AC did not have time to ponder the meaning of Slade's words. He was propelled forwards, around a corner of a cabin to a large open deck. At least a dozen heavily armed men stood waiting, all turning in unison to stare as AC stumbled towards the centre of the deck. AC saw the smiles on their faces, and feelings of shame and anger swept over him. Shackled, bruised and stripped to the waist, covered in scars and open wounds, he was a long way from being the hero who had once struck fear into the hearts of men like these. He was weak, helpless – a once feared hunter who now found himself in the snare of his enemies. And these men saw his weakness, they saw that he had been broken – he could see it in their eyes, in the sneering contempt with which they now stared at him. It was all too much. He needed this to be over – whatever they had planned, he needed it be over...

"Kneel," ordered Slade.

AC did not move; he wasn't going to make this easy for them.

"I said, kneel!"

A sudden blow to his back brought the compliance that Slade demanded. AC fell heavily to his knees, gasping in pain as they hit the hard metal of the deck. For a moment he knelt, head down and motionless, the sound of his labored breathing mixing with the wash of the waves just a few feet away.

He became aware of footsteps approaching, heels sounding crisply against the metal of the deck. He did not look up, but sensed that this was it – that whoever was behind this nightmare was about to reveal himself.

The footsteps stopped. AC looked up a little, and saw a pair of highly polished shoes just a couple of feet in front of him.

"Hello, AC."

AC froze. It had just been two words, but that voice – _it couldn't be!_ Surely his mind was playing tricks on him – the man was dead, for goodness sake! And yet...

"What, no greeting for an old friend? And after all those months we spent together up at Bateman."

AC's mind was spinning. He felt sick; his could feel the fear that was welling up inside his gut, and his throat was suddenly dry with terror. This time there could be no doubt – the impossible really had happened...

He looked up, to find his worst fears confirmed.

There, staring down at him exultantly, was Lex Luthor.

"Miss me?" he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "Don't get up, really – you on your knees seems apt in the circumstances, don't you think?"

"How...?" whispered AC, barely able to speak.

"How doesn't really matter, does it? Never underestimate a Luthor, AC – that's a lesson that you and your mutated friends are now going to have to learn the hard way."

AC did not reply. Stunned, he was still reeling from the shock of seeing a man he thought was dead standing alive and well before him. How was this possible? An image of Lex's corpse flashed into his mind. He'd been dead, there was no doubt about it – the doctor had confirmed it. Lex had died and he had buried him. So how could he be standing here now? It made no sense – none of this made any sense...

"Ahhh, poor Aquaman – is that single brain cell of yours struggling to understand?" taunted Lex, cocking his head to one side in feigned concern. "You always were stupid, AC. But then I guess Oliver didn't recruit you for your brains, did he?"

Lex began to walk slowly around the stricken hero, who continued to stare at the ground, momentarily struck dumb by the apparent resurrection of his old adversary. In the feast of revenge he had planned, Victor had been an appetiser, but AC – AC was something altogether different. Of all the members of the Justice League that had plagued him for so long, only Oliver ranked higher on Lex's hit list. He had always hated the young man who now knelt before him, his strength and good looks combining with that surf-boy arrogance to make him the object of Lex's loathing. But that loathing had deepened whilst he had languished in Oliver's prison up at Bateman. AC had been his jailer for much of the time he had spent there. Day after day he had had to endure the boy's puerile sense of humour, his mocking jibes. AC may never have laid a hand on him, but Lex still smarted from how he had been humiliated by a man he considered to be his intellectual inferior; it was payback time, and he was determined to savour every moment.

"You don't look too well, AC," he said, observing the burn marks and cuts that disfigured his captive's body. "Slade, I had hoped that you'd look after my guest a little more carefully."

Slade's upper lip curled into a half smile; he had had his fun with AC, and now he was enjoying watching Lex toy with the hero.

"And look at those blisters!" continued Lex, leaning in and making a show of peering at the skin that was peeling from AC's chest and arms. "You know you really should moisturise more, my friend – this look, it just isn't going to go down well on the beach."

"Where are my friends, Luthor," asked AC grimly, at last recovering from the shock of discovering that Lex was still very much alive.

"He speaks! For a minute there I thought my return from the dead had struck the dumb blond here, well, dumb," said Lex, obviously enjoying his own brand of twisted humour.

"What have you done with Bart and Victor, you sick piece of shit!"

"Ahh, that's more like the AC I know!" said Lex, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Defiant and brave, and always prepared to do whatever he can to protect his friends. You like to think that's what makes your band of vigilantes strong, don't you? That absurd sense of brotherhood that Oliver thinks so much of, and which you've all bought into like fools. Well what good is it doing you now, AC? Do you think Oliver is going to come swooping in to save you? You are alone, AC – and like your freak friends, you'll pay for your crimes alone."

"The only criminal here is you, Lex – you and your hired psycho. Where did you find him – the local zoo?"

"You mean Slade? Powerful, isn't he? More than a match for you, I think," said Lex. He could see that he was getting under AC's skin; it was time to deliver the coup de grace.

"You want to know what's happened to your friends?" he continued, already anticipating the effect his revelation would have on his former jailer. "Well, all the time I spent rotting in that prison of yours gave me a lot of time to think, AC. All those long days you forced me to spend in solitary – the only thing that kept me sane was dreaming up ways of hurting you and your little band of costumed terrorists. I wanted to make you suffer, suffer so much that you'd wish you'd never even heard the name of Luthor. Day after day I thought of nothing else, until eventually it came to me – a moment of pure inspiration. As you had locked me up and left me with no hope, so I would imprison each of you. But you would suffer no ordinary imprisonment – where would the fun be in that? No, for each of you I have devised a form of incarceration uniquely designed to suit your abilities. You could say the punishment doesn't just suit the crime, but it also suits the criminal – impressive, don't you think?"

Lex paused, conscious like a practised actor that at that moment all those present were hanging on his every word. He stared down at his captive, who returned his gaze with eyes that blazed with defiance.

"You've been watching too many Bond movies, Lex," said AC, trying to strike back in the only way he could – with words. "This whole villain tells the hero his plan thing? Hate to tell you this, Luthor, but it's been done. But hey, the bald master-criminal look? Suits you, Lex – it really does."

AC braced himself for Lex's response; he had seen how explosive the man could be when provoked, and he fully expected him to lash out and strike him. But the attack didn't happen. Instead, a thin smile appeared on Lex's lips, as if he had been expecting this show of defiance from the young hero, and was actually rather enjoying it. There was something chilling about that smile, as if Lex knew that what he was about to reveal would silence the young hero forever...

"The wisecracks keep coming, don't they, AC? Well let's see if you're still laughing after I've told you what I've done with Bart and Victor, heh?"

The color drained slightly from AC's cheeks at the mention of his friend's names. That Lex had captured them was bad enough; he shuddered to think what sick torment he'd dreamt up to hurt his friends.

"I'm a fair man, AC, so I have decided to allow Bart to live. He's just a boy, after all, and I'm prepared to accept that he has been led astray by Oliver's false promises. I have decided to sentence him to a year in a special correctional facility I have set up in Colorado – after twelve months of therapy courtesy of my doctors I don't think he'll even remember your names."

"_Sentence?_ Luthor, you have no right ..."

"_Right_?" interrupted Lex, for the first time a flash of anger audible in his voice. "I have _every_ right after what you did to me. What right did Oliver have to lock me up in Bateman? If you live by the sword, you die by the sword – you only have yourselves to blame for all this. Which brings me to Victor, our very own cyborg."

Again Lex paused; he was looking forward to the next act in his little drama. He squatted down in front of AC, so that he was able to look his captive straight in the eye.

"What a marvel of technology that boy is – or rather, was," he began, taking hold of a chain that hung from his neck and pulling it out so that he could show AC. Attached to it was what appeared to be some sort of flash drive, which Lex pulled forwards so that he held it just a few inches from the other man's face. "Do you know what this is, AC? This is all that remains of your friend Victor."

AC said nothing, but simply stared, uncomprehending, at the harmless looking piece of kit.

"Technology is such a wonderful thing – they can do anything these days, _anything_," continued Lex, warming to his theme. "So when I asked my research division to devise a way of downloading dear old Victor on to this tiny memory stick – well, they leapt at the chance! So here he is – every memory, every thought, every emotion – locked up in this tiny piece of circuitry. Amazing, isn't it? A man separated from his body, imprisoned in a computer file. Does he know what's happened to him? I wonder – perhaps one day I'll plug this into my laptop and ask him."

"You're...you're lying," whispered AC, horrified by what he'd heard.

"Really? Come now, AC, you know me better than that," replied Lex, slipping the chain and the drive back beneath his shirt. He stood up, satisfied that his words had had the devastating impact he'd hoped for.

"And so I come to you," he continued. "It took me some time to think of a punishment for you, AC. I wanted something really special – something _unique_. I think you're going to like what I've come up with, my friend – I think you could almost describe this as a work of art."

Lex turned and walked over to a metal structure that stood on the far side of the deck. It looked like some sort of diving bell from a fifties movie, only smaller; long and narrow and dominated by the hatch that stretched almost its entire length, it was just big enough to hold a single man...

"Let me introduce you to your new home, AC," exclaimed Lex, pulling open the thick metal door to the pod. "Don't worry, I've had it made to measure – although as you can see, it is going to be quite a snug fit."

AC's eyes widened. Inside the capsule he could see a number of thick leather straps designed to hold someone in place; he was beginning to understand what his captor had in store for him...

"What do you think, AC? You have to admit I've surpassed myself this time – the mighty Aquaman, imprisoned at the bottom of the ocean! Like I said, this is a work of art – not quite in the league of what I've got planned for Oliver, but it certainly comes close."

AC said nothing, finally overwhelmed by the nightmare that was overtaking him. After all that he had endured at the hands of Slade, to be confronted by this – it was just too much. All he could do was stare dumbly at the tiny pod that stood just a few feet from where he knelt, the pod in which Luthor intended to imprison him.

"Nothing to say? Well, let's get you settled in, shall we?"

Lex nodded to two of his men. They stepped forward and grabbed AC by his arms, lifting him to his feet before beginning to drag him towards the pod. The sudden movement seemed to shake AC from his dazed state, and almost without thinking he began to struggle against his captors. Perhaps it was the sight of the ocean, which he could see clearly now; it seemed so tantalisingly close, an offer of salvation even as he faced the jaws of hell. Whatever it was, from somewhere deep within himself he managed to summon up reserves of strength which by any sort of logic should not have been there. Digging his heels in, he pulled desperately against the men's grip, twisting and turning to try to gain his freedom. He knew that this was it, and that if he did not make his escape now then he would be doomed. His sheer will to survive drove him on – even if he was not successful, at least he would have tried, he would have resisted like the true hero he still wanted to be.

And then it happened. Miraculously, somehow he managed momentarily to slip free of one of the men. He didn't hesitate; using his increased freedom to manoeuvre, he threw the full force of his weight against his other would-be jailer. The man stumbled, and that was all the opportunity AC needed. A twist of his body and he was free, running forwards towards the water.

Time seemed to stand still for a moment. AC, his heart soaring with hope and exhilaration, felt as if he was flying through the air as he made his dash towards the edge of the ship, and the salvation of the waters that lay beyond. He had done it! Yet again he had cheated death, even as everything had seemed lost. He would warn Oliver, and together they would rescue Bart, restore Victor, deal with Lex once and for all – heroes united, undefeated once more. Everything was going to be fine – he just had to make it to the water, cloak his body in the power that it gave him...

Then, without warning, a shattering blow to his head sent him crashing to the ground. Dazed and confused, he was half aware of the shadow of a man falling over him. He did not look up, but instead forced himself on, pushing his body towards the edge of the ship which was now just a couple of feet away. His hands still tied behind his back, all he could do was slide himself forwards like some sort of beached animal, grotesquely straining every sinew of his being to make it back home...

A kick to his head finally brought his bid for freedom to an end. He cried out in pain, rolling over on to his side and curling up in agony.

"I told you to behave, boy!" snarled Slade, stamping down brutally on the young hero's back. He then leaned down and grabbed AC by the hair, pulling his head upwards and so far back it looked as if the sinews in his neck would snap.

"Did you think you were going to escape? No one escapes from Deathstoke!"

Slade then slammed AC's head down onto the iron deck. Immediately he lifted it up once more, as if he were going to repeat the action.

"That's enough, Slade," said Lex, standing a foot or so away from where Slade held AC in his grip. "You've had your fun, remember? Now it's my turn."

Slade glanced at the other man, before reluctantly he let go of AC's head. He got to his feet and stepped away, leaving AC lying at Lex's feet, his body shattered and unmoving.

"Look at you," sneered Lex, placing his foot on AC's side and rolling him over so that he lay on his back. "What did you think you were going to do, AC? Dive into the sea and make your escape? You always were stupid, Curry – a stupid pretty boy who wants to play at being a hero. Well you're in my game now, AC – and you play according to my rules."

"You won't get away with this..." whispered AC, staring up helplessly at his captor, his voice parched and broken.

"Really? And who's going to stop me?" laughed Lex, placing his shoe on AC's face. "Not you, I think."

Lex then began to press hard on the young man's face, grinding downwards as if he were putting out a spent cigarette butt.

"Oliver..." gasped AC, struggling to speak as Lex continued to press down harder and harder.

"Oliver? Do you think he's going to save you? Not going to happen, my friend. No, by the time Oliver finds out what I've done with you freaks he'll be too busy trying to save his own life to worry about yours."

Lex continued to grind his foot onto AC's face for a few seconds more, biting his bottom lip in excitement at the sight of a man he hated humiliated so completely. At last he removed his shoe, leaving the other man wincing in pain.

"Strap him in – and this time get it right," he ordered, stepping aside to allow his men to pick up their prisoner for a second time. AC could offer no resistance as he was dragged to the pod. Slammed into position, there was nothing he could do as he was secured inside with clinical precision. Thick straps were not simply placed around his wrists and ankles, but also around his thighs, his waist and his chest; the overall effect was to render him completely immobilised.

"Comfortable?" said Lex, as at last his men finished their work. "It looks as though we got the measurements right – I'd hate for us to have to cut off your feet to make you fit."

There was a ripple of laughter amongst Lex's men. Too often they had been at the wrong end of a beating from AC and his friends; they were enjoying seeing the tables turned at last.

"You're sick, you know that, Lex? A sick, twisted f...!"

"Enough!" said Lex, cutting off AC's words as he backhanded him hard across the face. "That mouth of yours always did have a tendency to get you into trouble, AC – I think it's time we shut you up, don't you?"

AC's head was still spinning, so he barely had time to register what was going on before he felt a hand grab his hair and slam his head hard against the back wall of the pod. He cried out in pain, but the sound was immediately muffled as Lex callously thrust a balled up piece of rag into his mouth. The rag was thrust deep into AC's throat, and for a moment the young hero thought he was going to choke. He gagged, trying to force the material out of his mouth, but it was too late; Lex had already pulled a strip of duct tape from a roll. Aware of what was about to happen, AC tried to turn away, but another slap around the face was enough to secure his compliance. He offered no further resistance as his tormentor pressed the thick strip of tape down over his lips, sealing the rag inside his mouth and silencing him for good.

"That's better," said Lex, standing back to admire his handiwork. "Just one more thing and you and I will be done."

He turned and nodded towards a man who until now had been standing on the margins of Lex's act of sadistic theatre. Older than Lex's other goons, he now stepped forward, handing Luthor a small rectangular case.

"Now I want you to have time to enjoy your new home, AC," continued Lex. "Which is why I've asked Doctor Williams to come up with this."

He opened the box, and took out a small syringe, filled with a sinister black liquid.

"Remember when we first met, AC? Those samples of your blood I took before you busted out of those restraints proved very useful – very useful indeed. Dr Williams here has used your DNA profile to come up with a powerful muscle relaxant. It will not only rob you of all physical sensation, but it will also slow down your metabolism. One shot of this and you'll be able to survive for months in this pod. No need for water, no need for food – no need for anything. And do you know the best thing? _You'll be awake the whole time."_

Lex stepped in closer, so that his mouth was just inches from the other man's ear.

"What do you think of that, _bro_?" he sneered, almost spitting out the final word. "You'll survive for months down there, all alone in the blackness. A man could go mad just thinking about it. Brilliant, isn't it? A living hell – and you deserve it, you worthless piece of shit!"

Terrified, AC watched as Lex brought the syringe to within a few inches of his head. He tried to struggle, but it was impossible; the straps held him so tight he could barely move an inch. Again Lex took hold of his hair, pulling his head to one side so that he had a clear view of his neck. He paused for a moment, before plunging the needle into the stricken hero's flesh, emptying its contents into his bloodstream.

"There – that didn't hurt, now did it?" said Lex, withdrawing the syringe and taking a step back. AC cursed into his gag, a futile final act of defiance from a man who knew that he had been beaten.

"And just one more thing," said Lex, bending down and picking up a board that lay on the deck. String was attached to it, and he carefully hung it around AC's neck.

It was sign, and on it could be seen the words, "AQUAMAN, LORD OF THE OCEANS."

"A fitting epitaph, don't you think boys?" asked Lex triumphantly, glancing round at his men, who, like a pack of hyenas, had now assembled for the final kill. Again they laughed – a cruel chorus of laughter, which seemed to reverberate against the metal walls of the pod that would soon be AC's tomb.

"Well, I guess this is goodbye," said Lex, feigning sadness as he stared one last time at the man he had vanquished so completely. "Oh, and don't worry – I'll be sure to give your regards to Oliver."

Two men stepped forward, taking hold of the heavy steel hatch.

"Seal it."

Those were the last words AC heard. As he watched the steel door was slammed shut in front of him, the hiss of air that followed a sign that it had been locked shut. Almost instantly he heard the sound of a generator kicking into life. He felt himself moving, and as he peered out through the porthole that was located directly in front of him he could see the ship disappearing below him. It was immediately obvious what was happening; the pod was being winched into the air, a prelude to it being deposited in the sea.

It took less than a minute for the capsule to be lowered into the water. AC could only watch as it lapped against the glass, a sight which should have given him cause for hope, but instead filled him with dread. He could just make out two divers, the men who were to guide him to his final resting place. There were a few shouts, and then suddenly the sky disappeared, the water closing over the top of the pod and sucking it downwards.

It must have taken three minutes for the capsule to reach the seabed. All the time AC could feel the drug taking effect. At first his limbs went numb, and then he lost all feeling in his arms and legs. Eventually his whole body was affected, so that all that was left to him was his ability to hear, see and think. Not that there was much to look at; a minute into the descent and the light from above no longer penetrated, leaving just an inky blackness pierced by an occasional shaft of light from one of the divers' torches. He tried to stay calm, to fight back the panic that threatened to engulf him at any minute. But it was hard. Used to the freedom of the open sea, to be trapped in a space little bigger than a coffin was almost unendurable. The water that could give him strength, that could allow him to break free from this living hell, was just a few inches way, but instead of offering him hope it seemed to taunt him. The drug, the straps, the thickened glass and steel walls of the chamber – all meant that escape was impossible. He was trapped – and this time there really was no way out.

The pod juddered as it hit the seabed, throwing AC's head back against the heavy steel wall of his tiny prison. He then heard the sound of metal hitting metal, a jarring noise that echoed alarmingly in the confined space of the pod. Immediately he knew what was happening:

His underwater cell was being anchored into its position.

For four minutes the banging continued, as terrifying a sound as AC could imagine. Then it stopped. For a few seconds there was silence, and then suddenly a flashlight beam blinded him from beyond the glass of the porthole. He squinted, trying to make out the diver who must have been just a couple of feet away. He could not, and a second or so later the light disappeared.

He was alone.

Once he had enjoyed the silence of the deep. It had been his friend, a welcome release from the noise of the surface. How different was the situation now. The silence seemed to scream at him, an ever-present reminder of the hell in which he now found himself.

_Stay calm – I must stay calm._

He knew that the voice inside his head was right. But the silence was so overwhelming it drowned out all rationality. A wave of fear swept over him, engulfing all before it. He could hear his heart beating faster and faster in his head. He started to breathe more quickly, his short, panting breaths amplified by the metal walls which seemed as if they were closing in on him. He wanted to cry out, to break free of his bonds and rip the metal hatch from its hinges. But he could not – he was powerless, entombed without any hope of rescue.

The tiny light that was above his head flickered, and then went out.

It was the final straw. Succumbing to the panic that was gnawing away at him, he let out a silent scream into the inky blackness of his waking nightmare, tears of childlike terror rolling down his face.

In the vastness of the ocean, no one answered.

* * *

Lex watched as his divers surfaced, a thumbs up sign indicating that their mission had gone well. He smiled; the last hour had already far exceeded his expectations, and the fact that AC was now trapped hundreds of feet below on the seabed put the perfect seal on a day that he had dreamt of for so many months. Taking a deep breath, he turned his head up towards the sun, its warm rays seeming to complement the utter serenity he felt at that moment. AC's face flashed into his mind. He had looked so frightened when the hatch had been closed; no longer the wisecracking hero, but just a scared boy, terrified of the fate that he knew awaited him. Lex wanted to remember that moment, he wanted to commit it to his memory so that he could savour it in the months and years ahead. The mighty Aquaman, humiliated and condemned –truly, revenge had never been sweeter.

And this was only the beginning – the best was still to come.

Now it was Oliver's turn.

* * *

Well, you can't say I didn't warn you! I love AC, and part of me feels bad about leaving him tied up and helpless at the bottom of the ocean. Only a _small_ part of me, of course - because we love the angst! Now that Lex and Slade have disposed of the guys, they are going to turn their attention to Oliver and Chloe - and if you think what has happened to AC is bad, just wait and see what's in store for our favorite archer!

This has been an intense chapter to write. I hope that it works - do please let me know what you think. I live for reviews (sad, I know), and you can make me so happy by posting one. It doesn't take long, so please, please do give me some feedback if you can!

Have a great New Year - here's to a 2011 filled with great Chlollie stories and a great Green Arrow/Chlollie filled finale to Smallville!


	9. Chapter 9:Baiting the Trap

**Chapter Nine: Baiting the Trap**

_Where are you, AC?_

Chloe had been hunched over her computer for about fifteen minutes, trying to make contact with AC, Bart and Victor. At first she'd been relieved to get back to Watchtower, the hours of waiting on Oliver's private jet as they'd flown back to Metropolis doing nothing for her peace of mind. Hoskins' attack on the Green Arrow, AC's failure to check in, Dean's abduction – suddenly events were crowding in, and the joy that she'd felt just twenty-four hours earlier as she'd swam in the warm, crystal clear waters of the Caribbean now seemed a world away. Every possibility had flashed through her mind during the flight, from the plausible to the fantastic, but speculation was pointless; she had needed to get back to base, to use the power of Watchtower's systems to work out just what the hell was going on. That was why she had felt so relieved to get back, although the sight of a half eaten packet of Dorritos, AC's snack of choice, had provided a chilling welcome when they'd first arrived. Watchtower had felt strangely empty, and she had been glad when her computers had reassuringly sprung to life under her guiding hand.

That had been fifteen minutes ago. Now, with her attempts to get in touch with not only AC but also Bart and Victor drawing a blank, a wave of anxiety was beginning to creep over her. She had tried everything. The usual communication protocols, the emergency frequencies – nothing. Even the tracking devices that were implanted into the shoulders of the young heroes to ensure that they could always be located if they got into trouble were silent. The grid was empty – it was as if the three of them had disappeared off the face of the planet.

"Any luck?" asked Oliver, appearing at her side.

"Nothing – there's no trace of any of them," replied Chloe, looking up. "What's going on, Oliver? Where are they?"

"I wish I knew, Chloe – I wish I knew," said Oliver, staring at the empty monitor in front of them. He appeared thoughtful, a slight frown on his face; there was no sense of panic, but Chloe knew that deep down he was as worried for his team as she was.

"What about Clark?" he asked.

"He's at the Fortress," said Chloe; at least on this her systems were able to give a positive answer. "I've tried raising him, but I can't – must be some sort of field interfering with my communications."

"Clark certainly picks his times to play happy families," said Oliver ruefully, trying to hide his disappointment; with his team missing he needed the kryptonian by his side, even if he didn't like to admit it, even to himself.

"What about Dean? Have you found him?"

Whilst Chloe had been searching for AC and the others, Oliver had been doing some digging of his own, but what he'd found out was about to add to the sense of uncertainty and danger.

"There's no trace of him," he said. "He didn't report for duty a couple of hours ago, and he's not answering his cell. Whoever took him must still have him."

There was a pause in the conversation, both of them aware of what Dean's disappearance might mean. He knew Oliver's secret identity; if he was tortured and talked, a bad situation would get a whole lot worse.

"Run a search on LL Tech – that's the company that Dean said had paid Hoskins one hundred and fifty thousand dollars," said Oliver, hoping that his friend's last words down the phone might provide the breakthrough they needed.

Chloe's fingers moved rapidly across the keyboard. The search did not take long, but the results were not what they were expecting.

"LL Tech is a subsidiary of Queen Industries..?" said Chloe incredulously, turning to look at Oliver.

"That's impossible," said Oliver, staring at the screen. "This must be a mistake – run the search again."

Chloe did as she was told, but the outcome was the same; according to Watchtower's computers, the owner of LL Tech was Oliver himself.

There was silence in the room, each of them trying to figure out what this latest twist might mean.

It was then that Oliver's cell rang.

He pulled it from his jacket pocket, still preoccupied by what the screen in front of him had revealed. He glanced down at the cell's display, his heart almost skipping a beat when he saw the name displayed as the caller:

_DEAN CARUSO CALLING_

"It's Dean," he said, his excitement audible in his voice as he put the cell to his ear. "Dean? Is that you? Dean, where are you man?"

* * *

Dean Caruso knew he was in trouble.

Something like twenty four hours had passed since he'd been caught in Hoskins' office. He couldn't be exactly sure of how long he'd been a prisoner; the effects of the chloroform, and the fact that he'd been kept trussed up in a windowless room for what seemed like an eternity, meant that his natural rhythms had been hopelessly disrupted. He guessed that it was late afternoon, but without a watch he had no way of knowing for sure; that, along with his cell, his badge and his wallet, had been taken by his kidnappers.

He shifted awkwardly, trying to give his tired muscles some respite from their latest test of endurance. An hour or so earlier he'd been dragged from his place of captivity, taken to a car in an underground parking lot, and thrown into the trunk. He was now being driven through the streets of Metropolis to an unknown destination, the constant stop-start of the car a sign that they were at least still in the traffic-choked confines of the city. But where he was being taken, and what they intended to do with him, Dean hadn't a clue.

One thing was certain – whatever he'd got himself mixed up in, it was much bigger than Hoskins. The DA was part of it, sure, but Dean felt certain that he was just a pawn in a much bigger game. The guys who'd taken him were in a different league to Hoskins; they were professionals, clinical in their approach and, from what he'd seen of them so far, men who wouldn't shy away from using brutal force to get what they wanted. He'd discovered that to his cost when he'd first come to in his former prison. He'd tried to loosen the rope that they'd used to bind his hands behind his back, and when they found out they had given him a beating that he'd never forget. Punched and kicked in the gut, he'd discovered to his cost that having a cop as their captive was an opportunity they did not intend to miss.

Getting beat up he could handle – although his muscles still ached from the punishment that they'd received. Less easy to stomach had been the attentions of the woman who appeared to be in charge of the operation. She had stood and watched as her men had attacked him, apparently amused at his inability to protect himself as the blows had rained down on him. Later she had offered him food and water, propping him up like a doll against the wall as she held the bottle and bread to his lips. He'd not had anything for hours, and reluctantly he'd accepted what she'd offered greedily. But he'd felt sick as he'd done it, repulsed by the way she'd run her fingers though his hair and kissed his neck suggestively as he'd eaten. She'd flirted with him – and it had left him feeling dirty, violated. And there was something else - something about the way she looked at him, the playful coldness of her touch. He had felt soiled when she had left, but also afraid; she knew what was planned for him, and something told him that when she had whispered into his ear that everything was going to be alright, she was lying.

What _were_ they planning to do with him? They knew about his relationship with the Green Arrow; worse still, if they had been listening in to his call to Oliver then they knew his friend's real identity. He felt sure that he was now a pawn in some bigger game, a game in which Oliver was the target. He cursed his own stupidity in allowing himself to get caught. He should have listened to Oliver; he might have known that he wasn't likely to get lucky and break into Hoskins' office a second time without running into trouble. However, it was too late now, and there was no use in going over past mistakes. He needed to focus on the present, and on staying alive.

The car began to slow, until eventually Dean felt it come to a halt. His body tensed as he heard voices and the sound of car doors being opened and then slammed shut; whatever they had planned for him, he was soon going to find out.

The door to the trunk swung open above him. He squinted, his eyes adjusting to the light. He looked up, to find two of the men who had roughed him up earlier leering down at him.

"How did you enjoy your journey, pretty boy?" sneered one of them, before reaching down and untying the ropes that bound his feet together. Dean could not reply, a strip of duct tape plastered across his mouth; all he could do was glare up at his captors as first his legs were freed, and then he was pulled from the trunk.

He swayed a little, the time he'd spent trussed up in the trunk of the car momentarily leaving him feeling disorientated. Looking around, he could see that he was in one of the city's run down industrial areas. The canal was off to his right, and off to his left as well as in front of him he could see apparently disused industrial units. A couple of cars and a van were parked up nearby, the only signs of life apart from himself and his kidnappers.

"Move it, pig!" ordered one of the men, the press of a barrel of a gun in the small of his back a reminder of what would happen if he didn't cooperate. He was pushed forwards, following the second man to a door in the side of one of the warehouses. Stepping inside, Dean found himself in a largely empty building, a vast, cavernous space opening out in front of him. Twenty or so feet from the door he could see seven or eight men standing around, dressed in black uniforms. Dean could see that they were heavily armed; most carried machine guns, and those who didn't had pistols holstered against their sides. Standing at the center of the group he could see the woman who had done so much to unsettle him earlier. She was talking to another man, who towered above her at well over six feet tall. Until that moment Dean had believed the woman was in charge, but now, looking at the two figures, it was clear that the balance of power amongst his kidnappers had shifted; the other man appeared to be very much in control.

Another shove and Dean was walking forwards towards the group, his heart beating a little faster in his chest in expectation of what might be about to happen.

"And here he is – right on time," said the woman, turning as he approached. Subconsciously Dean straightened his back as she looked him up and down; he might have been her prisoner, bound and gagged, but he was still a member of the Metropolis PD – and he was damned if he was going to bow down to the scum who now had him at their mercy.

"And how is my handsome detective?" said the woman, walking up to Dean. "I hope my men have been looking after you, Dean – I'd hate for anything to happen to the city's favourite poster boy."

As she spoke she fingered the collar of Dean's leather jacket, before stroking the back of her hand against his cheek. Dean flinched, turning away in disgust; his stomach turned over, just as it had done when she'd run her hands through his hair back in his makeshift cell.

The woman laughed. "Awww, is the hunky detective shy? Surely the hero of Metropolis is used to a little female attention?"

Dean scowled in mute defiance.

"I'm here to do a job, Cohen – not watch you play with your new toy."

Slade's words, hard and businesslike, made it clear that he was not in the mood for games. Dean saw the woman's face drop slightly, as if she had had an unwelcome reminder that she was no longer in charge.

"Bring him," ordered Slade.

The two men who had brought Dean from the car grabbed him roughly and marched him over to a table standing a few feet away. Slammed down onto a chair, he was surprised to find his hands being untied. His moment of freedom was fleeting, however, as immediately his left arm was brought forward from behind his back and tied to the chair's arm. Hs right arm was also brought forward, but this time it was stretched out to the side so that it lay on the table. Dean looked across, and for the first time saw the large metal hammer which was the only object on the table. Immediately he understood. The hammer was there for a purpose – they intended to torture him.

He started to struggle, kicking out with his legs against the men who held him. Catching them off guard, he managed to land a few blows, his flailing limbs proving surprisingly effective weapons.

"Stop struggling, you stinking pig!" snarled one of the men, driving his fist hard into Dean's face. The punch was enough to bring the young cop's show of resistance to an end; dazed, he could only watch as one man shackled his ankles to the legs of the chair whilst the other held his right arm down firmly on the surface of the table.

Satisfied that their victim was secure, Slade and Cohen now took up places by his side. Dean could feel his heart pumping harder in his chest, and beads of sweat began to run down his forehead. He was determined to stay strong, but he knew that that resolve was about to be tested to breaking point.

"I'm sorry, Dean, but we have to do this," said Cohen, reaching down and tearing the duct tape from Dean's mouth.

"You can torture me all you like – I won't talk," said Dean, his voice dry and cracked.

"I know, Dean. But we don't need you to talk – we just need you to scream."

"What the...?" Dean did not finish, his attention distracted by Slade grabbing the wrist of his right hand and pinioning it onto the table. He was vaguely aware of Cohen dialling a number on her cell, but his attention was now fixed on Slade, who had picked up the hammer and was holding it like a sword of Damocles over the young cop's trapped hand.

"Please...please don't do this," he said, trying to keep calm.

Cohen heard someone pick up the phone at the other end of the line.

"_Dean? Is that you? Where are you, man?" _

Cohen smiled; it was Oliver Queen's voice. She nodded at Slade, and then held her cell a couple of inches from Dean's mouth.

Dean did not have time to shout a warning to his friend. Slade smashed the hammer down in the young man's hand, targeting his fingers with devastating accuracy. Dean howled in agony, throwing his head back and screaming as the pain seared through his body.

"_Dean? Dean!"_

Oliver could be heard shouting at the other end of the line as Cohen calmly passed the cell to Slade.

"I'm afraid Detective Caruso can't come to the phone just now," said Slade, the icy calmness of his voice a terrible contrast to the sobs of the young cop; Dean was writhing in torment, tears rolling down his face as he tried to recover from the savage assault of just moments earlier.

"_Who is this? What have you done with Dean?"_

"Your friend Caruso is being tortured," replied Slade, his tone businesslike. "And as you can hear, he's hurting – even this tough guy cop weeps when his bones are being broken, one by one. Do as I say, and his pain will stop – fail to follow my instructions, and he will die."

There was a pause, the brutal certainty of Slade's words seeming to echo in the silence.

"_What do you want?"_

"What do you think I want? I want you, Green Arrow."

"It's a trap! Don't..." Dean's warning was cruelly cut short as Cohen clamped her hand across his mouth, reducing his words to no more than muffled cries.

"Sssshhh," she whispered, leaning down and pressing a knife against his throat. "Be a good little cop, or I will hurt you, understand?"

Dean nodded, eyes wide with terror as he felt the blade pressed against his skin.

"The Slater Warehouse by the canal," continued Slade. "Come at ten tonight – any tricks, and the cop here dies."

He snapped the cell shut.

"You really think he'll come?" gasped Dean, now released from Cohen's smothering grip.

"With bait as pretty as you? Ohh, I think your friend Oliver Queen will come – and then leather boy will be ours," sneered Cohen, pulling her own cell from her jacket. "I'll call the boss – he'll want to know how the operation is proceeding."

She walked away, so that Dean could not hear the call that she was about to make. At the same time the men who had been standing around when Dean had entered the warehouse began to fan out, their guns at the ready; it was clear that now their location had been revealed, they were under instructions to be on a high state of readiness.

"You won't get away with this," said Dean, staring at the man who had just inflicted so much pain on him.

Slade did not reply, but instead looked at the two men who had earlier tied Dean to the chair.

"You know what to do – gag him and chain him up."

Within seconds Dean was being dragged away. Again he resisted, cursing his captors and struggling to get free as they manhandled him towards the thick chains that hung menacingly from the roof in the center of the warehouse. Like a worm on a hook, Dean was to be displayed as bait; Slade was certain that the leader of the Justice League would have no choice but to take it.

"_Brave cop,"_ he thought to himself, watching Dean kick out at his captors as his wrists were shackled. _"Shame he has to die."_

_

* * *

_

Oliver slowly took the cell from his ear, before replacing it in his jacket pocket. Grim faced, he appeared pensive, stern; Chloe did not need to ask what had happened.

"They're torturing him, Chloe," he said, the anger that he was feeling audible in his strained voice. "They've got Dean, and they're torturing him."

"What did they say?" asked Chloe, sensing how upset Oliver was; she knew that he and Dean had formed a strong bond over the previous few months, and he was clearly hurting.

"They want the Green Arrow – and if I don't show, they'll kill him."

"Do they know your identity?"

"They didn't use my name, but they know, Chloe – I can feel it," replied Oliver, turning and walking away. "Damnit, why did I let him go in there? I should have stopped him, Chloe – I should have made him wait."

Chloe got up and walked over to him, slipping her arm under his; his hands were balled into fists of frustration, and she could feel the tension in his muscles.

"Hey, he'll be okay," she said soothingly. "They'll all be okay, alright?"

She felt him relax a little. He turned to look at her, kissing her softly on the lips.

"Keep trying to raise Clark, okay?" he said as their lips parted, a weak smile of reassurance on his face. He then began to walk towards a side door.

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm suiting up. They want the Green Arrow, they can have him – but I'm damned if I'm going to make it easy for these guys."

It took Oliver ten minutes to prepare himself, casting off his identity as Oliver Queen and emerging as his alter ego, the Green Arrow. As he slipped into his costume, the smooth leather moulding itself to his muscles like a second skin, he was filled with a sense of grim resolution. For the last twenty four hours events had spiralled out of control, and now not only was his team missing, but the life of a brave cop was on the line. It was too much of a coincidence for the two events not to be connected, and as he began to arm himself for the mission that lay ahead he was acutely aware that he was facing a threat that was not simply unknown, but also highly organised, powerful and ruthlessly professional. He could feel the net closing in around him, and it was almost certain that they already knew his true identity. At that moment he didn't care about that; what mattered was Dean's life, and the lives of his friends. He would find them, and he would save them – whatever the cost.

As he strode back into Watchtower's control room he knew what he had to do – and what's more, he had a plan.

"You know this is a trap, right?" said Chloe, wrapping her arms around his body and pulling him close. She was afraid – as afraid as he was – but she knew better than to try to talk him out of whatever he had decided to do. His friends were in danger, and he was going to do all he could to save them. That was what made him a hero – and if he hadn't been heading out at that moment then he wouldn't have been the man she'd fallen hopelessly in love with.

"Be careful, okay?" she said, hugging him even tighter.

"Hey, I'll be okay," he said, cupping her face in his hands and staring deep into her eyes. "I've got Watchtower watching my back, right? Besides, I've got one or two cards of my own to play. Whoever's got Dean, I'm going to make them regret they ever started this."

* * *

Ollie and Chloe are back - yay! Get ready for some GA action in future chapters - as well as some serious danger for our hero!

Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Only a few weeks before Smallville comes back - I am SO hoping for LOTS of Ollie/GA screentime, and a great Chlollie reunion! Thanks for reading, and of course a HUGE thankyou to my reviewers. Please do leave some feedback if you can - it really does mean the world to me!


	10. Chapter 10: Turning the Tables

**Chapter Ten: Turning the Tables**

Oliver stood motionless on the rooftop, a shadowy figure amongst the glare of the lights which scarred the night sky. Thirty floors below him hundreds of people thronged the street, some on their way home after a long day at work, others on their way out, ready to sample the city's nightlife. On another day Oliver would have been among them, but not tonight – tonight he was on a mission. Clad head to toe in the tight leathers of his costume and with his hood pulled up over his head, he was ready to put into action the plan that he hoped would save Dean's life. He knew that even if he pulled this off, there was no guarantee that he and his friend would make it out alive, or that he would be able to preserve his identity as the Green Arrow. But at that moment, as he towered defiantly over the city he had done so much to protect, he did not care. He was determined to wrest back the initiative from his mysterious enemies, and even if he went down fighting, at least he would go down fighting in a way that he, rather than they, had chosen.

"_Green Arrow, this is Watchtower. Do you read me?"_

"I read you, Watchtower," replied Oliver, holding his hand to the earpiece that linked him back to his base a few miles away. His voice distorter was already on, adding to the sense of expectation; both knew that he was about to go into action, and that a man's life hung on the outcome of the next few minutes.

"_I'm scanning the target now. I'm picking up four hostiles in addition to the primary target – two in the entrance area, and two in the corridor outside the main office."_

"Access point?"

"_The floor above is clear."_

Oliver stared across at the building opposite, identifying the floor in question. The lights were out, but he could just make out a small ledge running along the base of the windows.

"I've got it," he said simply. "I'm going in."

There was a pause at the other end of the line.

"_Be careful."_

Oliver hesitated; the voice that had just spoken was not the assured voice of Watchtower, but the concerned voice of the woman who loved him.

"Always," he replied. "Green Arrow out."

He tapped his earpiece, cutting the line to base. He then pulled out his crossbow and took careful aim at the floor of the building opposite that was his target, letting loose a grappling line with pinpoint accuracy. The hook found its mark. Oliver did not hesitate; having tested its strength he took hold of the line and launched himself off the edge of the building, the air whistling in his ears as he slid silently to his destination.

He landed lightly on the ledge, which was little more than six inches wide. Working quickly but with intense focus, he pulled a cutting tool from his belt and began carefully to make a hole in the glass of the window. He appeared oblivious to the fact that he was just an inch or so from a fall that could see him plunge thirty odd floors to almost certain death; this was what he spent hours training for, and so honed were his instincts that he was as comfortable on the ledge as if he were reclining by a pool somewhere.

It took him under a minute to cut a section of glass from the window. Reaching in through the hole he had created, he took hold of the window catch, slowly pulling it upwards. He didn't need to create much of a gap, and within a second or two he was in.

The room in which he found himself was a large open plan office, rows of desks ranged in front of him. Quietly he jogged towards the exit, sheathing his crossbow as he did so. He was looking for the elevator, and it didn't take him long to find it, the elevator doors standing just opposite the entrance to the office. He pressed a button, and waited.

Twenty seconds or so later and a reassuring ping sound announced the arrival of the elevator. Oliver stepped inside, selecting the floor below as his destination. As the doors slid shut he took a deep breath, and readied himself for action.

Seconds later and the ping of the elevator sounded again, this time on the floor below. The two men who stood in the lobby turned, their hands poised and ready to pull out their guns at the slightest sign of danger. However, when the doors slid open they found themselves staring at an empty compartment. They relaxed a little, exchanging glances as they realised it was nothing more than a false alarm; they'd been jumpy all evening, and were looking forward to the moment when their time on guard duty would come to an end. One of them wandered over to the open doors, intending to send the elevator on its way. It was as he was about to press the button to send it back down to ground level that he noticed a tiny piece of paper laying on the floor of the compartment. He could see something was written on it; his curiosity aroused, he leaned in and picked it up.

The man frowned as he read the cryptic message:

DON'T LOOK UP

Suddenly something told him he was being watched. He flipped his head upwards, but it was too late; all he saw was a blur of green as Oliver crashed down upon him from his hiding place wedged in the ceiling of the elevator. Two brutal blows to the head knocked the man out cold, and before he had hit the ground Oliver was already tumbling like an acrobat into the lobby. The other man was fumbling for his weapon, but he was not fast enough; Oliver rolled into position and took aim with his crossbow, placing a bolt in the man's right shoulder with clinical precision and causing him to drop his gun to the floor. He cried out in pain, and reached to pull out the bolt. Oliver was relentless; a roundhouse kick to the gut sent the man flying against the wall, before a punch to the head rendered him unconscious.

Oliver stood for a moment, breathing hard as he surveyed his handiwork; both men appeared to be out for the count. He reached up to his earpiece.

"Watchtower, I'm in – two hostiles neutralised," he said in a low voice. "Where are the others now?"

"_Still outside the primary target's office."_

"Any sign of movement?" he asked, concerned that his initial attack might have attracted their attention.

"_Negative – they're staying put."_

Oliver tapped the earpiece, once more severing the connection. He then dragged the man from the elevator shaft, laying him alongside his partner. He rolled both men onto their stomachs, checking their pockets for any cell phones or objects they might use to escape. He then pulled some zip ties from his belt, binding their hands and feet before taping their mouths shut; he didn't need any unwelcome interruptions for the second phase of the operation.

Moving swiftly but silently, Oliver made his way down a corridor that led towards his target. As he approached he could hear voices coming from just around the corner, presumably from the men who were standing guard outside. Pausing to check that his weapons were loaded, he stepped calmly into their line of sight.

"Hey guys, how's it going?" he asked, his words sounding cool and confident as he squared up to the two men who were standing about fifteen feet away. "I hear you've been looking for me. Well, here I am – take your best shot."

He stood, his outstretched arms both an invitation and a challenge to the men to do their worst. At first they stood rooted to the spot, their shock at coming face to face with the Green Arrow seeming to rob them of all power of movement. Their paralysis was short-lived, however, and in little more than a second they were reaching for their guns. It was what Oliver had been waiting for. Taking aim with his crossbow, he immediately found his first target; one of the men fell to his knees, the bolt in his shoulder pouring out a green smoke that would render him unconscious in a matter of seconds. The other man had now pulled out his gun and was taking aim, but it was too late; a second bolt felled him in exactly the same way as the first.

Inside the office, Hoskins had heard the commotion outside. Sensing the danger, he opened his desk drawer, pulling out a pistol. He walked over to the door, his ears straining to hear what was going on. He could hear nothing, save for the sound of his own heart pumping furiously in his chest. He leaned in still closer, placing his ear right against the door so that he could detect even the slightest movement...

Suddenly the door flew open, kicked in by the force of Oliver's boot. Hoskins was sent flying to the floor, the gun tumbling from his hand as he cried out in pain at the impact of the blow. Wincing in pain, he scrambled desperately for his weapon, but Oliver beat him to it; the gun was kicked out of reach, and Hoskins froze as he felt the sharp tip of a crossbow bolt pressed against his forehead.

He looked up. There, towering over him, stood the Green Arrow.

"Move, and I'll kill you!" hissed Oliver, his voice distorter converting his words into the deep, powerful tones of the vigilante.

Hoskins could not reply; terrified, he simply stared up at the man whose reputation he had done so much to destroy.

"Did you think those four apes would protect you, Hoskins?" continued Oliver, scowling down at his hapless victim. "Now, I want some answers. Who's put you up to this?"

"I...I...don't know what you..."

"Don't lie to me!" demanded Oliver, pressing the crossbow still harder against Hoskins' forehead. "Who is behind this?"

"I swear, I don't know what you mean," replied Hoskins, beginning to recover from the shock of Oliver's sudden appearance. "We received the footage of you robbing those banks, and we had to act..."

"I said no lies!" interrupted Oliver, kicking Hoskins hard in the gut. "You know I didn't rob those banks, so I'll ask again – who put you up to this?"

"Torture me all you like, I won't talk," choked the other man, reeling from Oliver's blow. "Your time's running out, Oliver – we know who you really are."

Oliver had guessed that whoever was working against him knew his true identity, but it was still a shock to hear Hoskins confirm it.

"You have no idea what's coming, do you? They are going to destroy you, Oliver – they are going to leave you with nothing."

Oliver did not reply, but instead reached down and grabbed Hoskins. He dragged the man over to his desk, slamming him into his chair before once again aiming the crossbow at his head at point blank range.

"Call your boss – tell them I want Dean Caruso, or you die."

Hoskins smiled. "You want your pet cop? They won't trade, Oliver. Besides, you won't kill me – you're the hero, after all."

Hoskins said the words with a voice which dripped with mockery. Oliver was enraged, and slapped him hard across the mouth.

"You'd better hope they'll trade," he said. "Because if they don't I _will_ kill you, Hoskins – you have my word on it."

The color drained from Hoskins face as he looked up at Oliver, his smile quickly disappearing as he realised that the young hero meant what he said.

"Now make the call."

Hoskins reached for the phone, his hands shaking as he dialled the number.

"It's me, Hoskins," he said breathlessly as the call connected. "He's here, the Archer's here..."

Oliver snatched the phone.

"I have Hoskins – if you want to keep him alive then bring Dean Caruso to the fountain at Watchmead Park at three tomorrow morning. Once Dean is set free you'll get Hoskins. Any tricks, and Hoskins dies. Understand?"

"_I understand."_

Oliver recognised the voice as that of the man he'd spoken to earlier.

"So do we have a deal?"

There was a pause.

"_We have a deal."_

Oliver ended the call.

"Get up," he ordered.

Hoskins did as he was told. Oliver tied his hands behind his back, and then gestured for him to move towards the door.

"You think this will work?" sneered Hoskins. "Even if they let you have Caruso, you're still finished, Queen – and I can't wait..."

He didn't have chance to finish his sentence, as a powerful blow to the back of his head knocked him unconscious.

Oliver stood over him, reaching up to his earpiece to make contact with Chloe.

"Watchtower, do you read me?"

"_Hearing you loud and clear, Arrow."_

"I have the target in my possession. The exchange is on, at the agreed rendezvous."

"_Understood. My systems are already scanning the area – if they are planning to jump you, I'll know about it."_

Oliver smiled. "Never doubted that you'd have my back, Watchtower," he said. "Arrow out."

Oliver leaned down and took hold of Hoskins, throwing him over his shoulder. He felt good, despite what he'd learnt over the previous few minutes. His enemies knew his identity, but the plan had worked – he'd got Hoskins, and now he had something to bargain with. The priority was to save Dean, and he felt convinced that if he could do that all the pieces of the mystery, not least the disappearance of his friends, would fall into place.

Things were bad, but not as bad as they had been. An hour earlier and he had been faced with the prospect of walking into a trap where all the cards were stacked against him. Now he would meet his enemies on his terms – at a place of his choosing, and with the full resources of Watchtower at his disposal.

He was back in the game – now it was time to save his friend.

* * *

Lex smiled as he watched the security footage of the Green Arrow breaking into Hoskins' office. The images were surprisingly good, every phase of Oliver's abduction of the DA recorded in detail. When he'd staged the Green Arrow's attacks on the banks he'd had to make sure that the images were not too clear, but this time there was no need – this was the Archer himself, kidnapping a prominent city official.

"_Think you're one step ahead, Oliver?" _he thought to himself. _"You're wrong, my friend – you couldn't be more wrong if you tried."_

He had expected Oliver to strike back like this – that was why he'd sent four of his men to provide security for Hoskins. Hoskins had been grateful, of course, although Lex doubted that he would have been quite so fulsome in offering his thanks if he'd known that Lex had deliberately left him with a level of security that he knew would be inadequate. In the scenario that was now playing out Lex had _wanted_ Oliver to take Hoskins. It wasn't just the footage that would be invaluable, but it would add huge credibility to what he had planned for his rival. It didn't matter that the exchange would take place at a place of Oliver's choosing – Slade's strength, and the technology of LuthorCorp, would soon wipe out any advantage the young hero might have.

He leaned back in his chair, a wave of contentment washing over him.

"_Soon you'll be mine, Oliver – and then the fun will really begin."_

_

* * *

_

Some Green Arrrow action for you - hope you enjoyed it! Nothing better than seeing Ollie in his costume kicking villain ass, with Watchtower backing him up.

Life is a bit busy at the moment, so finding time to write is difficult - I hope to have the next chapter up in about a week, but it could be two, I'm afraid. Getting very excited about Smallville coming back - the promo shots for Collateral are great!

Please do post a review if you can - they mean so much! Reviews also give me the incentive to keep on writing, and with life as it is at the moment, an incentive is what I need!


	11. Chapter 11: Saving a Friend

**Chapter Eleven: Saving a Friend**

Oliver stood a few feet from the edge of the fountain, scanning the landscape around him. It was a clear night, the light of the moon joining with the street lamps to give him a good view of his surroundings. Not that there was much to see; carefully mown lawns stretched away to all sides, occasionally bisected by the wide paths which criss-crossed the park. The landscape was gently undulating, but the nearest trees were some way away, off to his left. The fountain stood in splendid isolation, and that was exactly why Oliver had chosen this spot for the exchange. His enemies would find it impossible to take him by surprise, and the open landscape gave more than enough possible routes of escape.

He glanced over at his car, its tinted windows having once more served their purpose in hiding his identity as he'd made his way to this location. If everything went according to plan, in fifteen minutes' time he and Dean would be driving away in it, his mission accomplished. After that...well, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it. The priority now was to save Dean; he'd worry about the future later.

He glanced at his watch.

_02:58_

Not long now.

"_Arrow, do you read me?"_

"Reading you loud and clear, Watchtower," replied Oliver, his body tensing in expectation of what was to come.

"_You've got company – two cars have just pulled into the north entrance."_

"Roger that."

"_There's more. Another car has just pulled into the west entrance,"_ continued Chloe, her concentration audible in her voice._ "Wait...its stopping...two men are getting out...and they're moving in your direction, Arrow – watch your left flank."_

"Understood," said Oliver. He'd known that having Watchtower would be vital to the success of his plan, and what he'd just heard only confirmed that.

It took the two cars approaching from the North under thirty seconds to reach the fountain. As they approached Oliver stepped forward a couple of paces to meet them, planting his boots firmly in the gravel of the path as if to stake out his territory. Standing over six feet tall and clad head to toe in the leathers of his costume, he fixed the cars with a cool stare as they came to a halt. Oliver understood the importance of image, and at that moment it was vital to show he held no fear of what was to come. Inside his heart was beating furiously, but outwardly he was the Green Arrow, the man who singlehandedly had brought Metropolis's underworld to its knees.

Eight people got out of the cars. Six were immediately obvious as hired muscle, their guns holstered beneath their dark suits. They fanned out to either side of the cars, taking up positions about thirty feet from where Oliver watched, motionless and impassive. Two figures were left standing at the center. One was Cohen; dressed head to toe in black, she eyed Oliver with a mixture of excitement and fascination. To her side stood Slade. Once again he towered over the scene, his face impossible to read. Instinctively Oliver knew that this was the man he had spoken to down the phone, the man who had tortured Dean in order to force him out into the open. The two of them stared at each other for a few moments, each sizing the other up; both knew that whatever happened over the following few minutes, only one of them would be leaving the fountain with their reputation intact.

"Green Arrow - or should that be Mr Queen," began Cohen, taking a few paces towards Oliver. "I've heard so much about you – it's a pleasure to meet you at long last."

"Where's Dean?" demanded Oliver, determined not to get drawn into some sort of conversation.

"Still masking your voice?" replied Cohen. "Really, Mr Queen, there's no need. We all know it's you, so let's not play games, yes?"

"I asked you a question," continued Oliver, choosing not to respond; the woman clearly wanted him to reveal himself, and he had no intention of playing ball.

"Detective Caruso is safe – for now," said Cohen, her voice losing some of its earlier playfulness; she sensed that Oliver was not going to rise to her bait, and was starting to feel tense in expectation of what was to come.

"Let me see him."

Cohen turned and nodded to two of her men, who then turned and headed towards the trunk of the first car. No one else moved. Whilst Cohen had done all the talking, Oliver kept his eyes focused firmly on Slade; the man had said nothing, but there was something about his brooding presence which told the young hero that it was he who posed the greatest threat to his chances of getting Dean out of there alive.

After a few seconds the men emerged from around the back of the car. Between them they dragged Dean, who was struggling to get free of their grip; a punch to the detective's gut soon made him more compliant.

"Well, here he is," said Cohen, glancing across at Dean. "Now where's Hoskins?"

Dean, recovering from the blow to his stomach, looked up and saw Oliver. The two men stared at each other for a couple of seconds, and Oliver felt relieved that his friend appeared to have survived his ordeal relatively unscathed. His hands were tied behind his back, and a strip of tape had been plastered over his mouth, but otherwise he appeared to be in good shape, with no obvious signs of serious injury. However, if Dean looked physically unharmed, his eyes told a different story. They were wide with alarm, almost as if they were trying to warn Oliver of something, of the fact that this was all a terrible trap...

"Pretty boy is fine, now where's Hoskins?" demanded Cohen impatiently.

This time it was Oliver's turn to retrieve his hostage. He walked backwards towards the trunk of his car, never once taking his eyes off Slade and the others. Opening it up, he pulled Hoskins out, before throwing the DA to the ground in front of him. Trussed up and gagged, Hoskins glared furiously up at Oliver, before looking across at Cohen and Slade. His eyes lit up when he saw them, realising that rescue was probably close at hand.

"Get up," ordered Oliver, looking down at Hoskins with contempt. The DA struggled awkwardly to his feet, before the press of a crossbow bolt against the side of his head brought him to a sudden halt.

"That's far enough," said Oliver, pushing his bow firmly against the other man's skull as he looked across at the others. "Now send over Dean. And no tricks – or our esteemed DA here will regret it."

Cohen smiled. "Nice try, Mr Queen, but I told you - the game's over," she said, coolly pulling out a gun and jamming it hard under Dean's chin. "Now put down your weapon and surrender, or I will kill your friend here."

Oliver swallowed hard, trying to contain the adrenalin that was now surging through his body. He'd hoped that it wouldn't play out like this, but it had always been a possibility; he just needed to stay calm, to convince them that he really would kill Hoskins if they didn't let Dean go...

"You think I won't do it? Listen, if I kill this son-of-a-bitch I'll be doing the city a favour," said Oliver, trying to mask the tension in his voice. "Now let Dean go – now!"

He pushed the crossbow even more firmly into Hoskins' skin, forcing the man to lean away. Hoskins appeared terrified, tears running down his cheeks; there was no doubt that he, at least, believed that Oliver would carry out his threat.

Cohen continued to hold her gun under Dean's chin. She showed no signs of giving in; instead, she continued to smile malevolently, as if she was enjoying the drama that was playing out in front of her.

"Did you really think we were going to exchange your pet cop for _him_?" she said, glancing at Hoskins. "He's of no value to us, so go ahead – kill him. It won't change the fact that if you don't surrender to us in the next ten seconds, Metropolis is going to be mourning the loss of its favourite detective."

Hoskins's eyes widened, his face crumpling with fear as he realised that his would-be rescuers viewed his life as dispensable. He whimpered into his gag, as Oliver continued to hold the crossbow against his head. Oliver said nothing, his mind desperately trying to readjust to this new reality. He'd played his best hand, but it hadn't been good enough; as he looked across at Dean he knew that he was fast running out of options...

"Lay down your weapon, and Dean here won't be harmed – you have my word," continued Cohen. "We have no interest in hurting him – it's you that we want."

Still Oliver said nothing. He could hear Hoskins muffled words of panic in his ears, but his eyes were fixed firmly on Cohen, who continued to press the barrel of her gun into the underside of Dean's chin. The young cop didn't flinch; he knew his life was on the line, but Oliver could tell from the defiance that flashed in his eyes that he was ready for whatever might happen next.

"Five," said Cohen, beginning to countdown the seconds.

"Four."

Alert to every danger, Oliver sensed movement off to his left; the men that Chloe had warned him about had arrived, and were moving into position. As Cohen continued her countdown, his mind went into overdrive, a dozen or more life or death decisions being made in an instant. He knew they wanted him alive, and that gave him an advantage. Dean, however, had no such protection, and he knew that in the confrontation that was just seconds away giving his friend the chance to escape was his first priority. Eying up the men who faced him, Oliver placed each one on a mental map, determining the level of threat they posed and how best to neutralise each of them. They were hired muscle; with orders to capture and not kill, he was confident he could take them out. But Slade...Slade was another matter. How much of a threat was he? Oliver couldn't know for sure, and that unnerved him; he just had to hope that his instincts were wrong, and that he could defeat the huge man who was standing just feet from where he stood, watching and waiting...

"Two."

"_I can do this," _he said to himself, _"I _have_ to do this."_

"One."

Nobody moved. The night air was thick with the tension of the moment, as each side in the standoff stared at the other, hands poised over weapons.

"Big mistake, Mr Queen," said Cohen, breaking the silence. She turned to look at Dean, his chin still resting perilously on top of the barrel of her gun. "Say goodbye, Detective."

Her finger began to press down on the trigger. Dean closed his eyes, screwing them up tightly as he offered up a silent prayer and waited for the inevitable. However, the shot did not come. Instead he heard Cohen cry out in agony, and the pressure from the gun barrel suddenly disappear. His eyes shot open, to find his would-be killer on her knees, her hands grasped around an arrow which protruded from her right shoulder blade.

"Get him!" she shouted, her face twisted in a mixture of pain and rage. Dean suddenly found himself standing alone as the two men who had held him in their grip joined the others in charging forwards towards Oliver. He looked down at Cohen, who returned his gaze; each knew what the other was thinking. Letting go of the arrow which still stuck out from her shoulder, Cohen made a grab for her gun, which lay a couple of feet away. Dean was too quick for her; he kicked the gun away across the gravel, before turning and kicking his kidnapper square on the jaw. Cohen fell back, rolling around on the ground as she clutched her face. Dean was in no mood to show mercy, and pressed home his attack, delivering a second kick to her gut. She stopped moving, a low groan the only sign that she had not lost consciousness. Satisfied that, for now at least, Cohen was out of action, Dean looked up, hoping to find that Oliver was having as much luck as he had had...

Cohen's chilling farewell to Dean had prompted Oliver to launch his attack. Reaching behind him he had grabbed an arrow from his quiver, hurling it with devastating accuracy at his primary target. He had found his mark, Cohen's scream of pain enough to tell him that she would not be able to carry out her threat. He had not had time to watch his friend press home his attack. No sooner had the arrow left his hand and he had grabbed Hoskins by the neck, wheeling him to the left just in time for the hapless DA to take two tranquiliser darts to the chest. The man barely had time to open his mouth in shock before the drug had taken effect, and he slumped to the ground. He had served his purpose, however; crouching behind his human shield, Oliver had already managed to take out the two men who had attacked him from the side with two well-aimed crossbow bolts. He turned, to find Cohen's men advancing on his position. He dived to his right, just in time to avoid three or four darts that the men had fired in his direction. He fired off two bolts as he lay on the ground, each finding its target as two men fell heavily to the ground. The four remaining men continued to bear down on him, firing off darts as they got closer and closer. Luckily for Oliver, their aim was poor, and he easily leapt out of the way. Springing to his feet, he launched himself at the two men who were closest to him. The first was felled with two swift blows, one to the gut and one to the head. The other threw a punch, but Oliver easily dodged it; nimbly he twisted around and took the man's legs out from under him, finishing him off with a punch of his own, directed straight at the man's head.

It had all taken place in a matter of seconds, but- miraculously – Oliver seemed to be winning. It was then that things took a sudden turn for the worse. As Oliver turned to face the other two men a blow to his jaw sent him staggering. For the first time he was off balance; his attackers sensed their moment, and did not hesitate. One of them grabbed him by his arms, pinioning them behind his back. Oliver tried to get free, but the man was too strong. He looked up, to find the other man standing in front of him, a leering grin on his face. He drove his fist hard into Oliver's gut, causing the young hero to double over in agony. Winded, Oliver desperately tried to force some air into his lungs, but within seconds a second blow, this time to his head, left him reeling. Then there was another blow, and another – dazed, Oliver could sense that it was only a matter of time before he lost consciousness...

Suddenly, and without warning, Oliver felt the grip of his captor disappear. He didn't know what had happened, but this time it was his turn not to hesitate; taking advantage of his freedom, he reached out and grabbed the other man's fist, just as he was about to bury it once more in Oliver's gut. The man looked stunned, but not for long – a single blow to the head and he collapsed to the ground, unmoving.

His attackers defeated, at last Oliver was able to pause and catch his breath. His chest heaved as he tried to recover from the beating he had just received. He knew that he had been lucky – a few more blows and it would have been all over. What had happened? He turned, and quickly found the answer.

"Thought you could do with some help," said Dean, a broad grin on his face. He was standing over the body of the man who had grabbed Oliver; the large stone in his hand made it clear what had happened.

"Hey, I had it covered," replied Oliver, a knowing grin forming on his lips. The two men stood smiling at each other for a moment, before a wave of relief propelled them towards each other. They hugged, like long lost brothers who'd thought they might never see each other again.

"I owe you, man," said Dean, his voice choked with emotion. He'd managed to stay strong during his long hours as a hostage, but now that his ordeal seemed to be over the tide of his pent-up emotions could be held back no longer.

"Anytime, man – anytime," replied Oliver, his spirits soaring. For a split second he felt nothing but joy. The fate of his team, the loss of his secret identity – all these fears were, for the shortest of moments, forgotten. Dean was safe, and that was all that mattered – he had saved his friend.

It was the last moment of happiness Oliver was to experience for a very long time.

"Oliver Queen!"

Oliver froze. Both he and Dean turned, to find Slade standing calmly twenty feet or so away.

"That was quite a show you put up there," he continued, staring at Oliver. "The Green Arrow has certainly lived up to his reputation."

"Stay where you are!" ordered Oliver, stretching out his arm and aiming his crossbow straight at Slade's head. He felt tense, uncertain, his every instinct screaming at him that this man was dangerous, more dangerous than he could imagine...

"Your reflexes are good – you train hard, I can tell," continued Slade, his easy tone at odds with an atmosphere that was suddenly fraught with tension. "Now lay down your weapon, and you have my word your detective friend will live."

"Listen, I don't know who you are, but this is over, do you hear? Your plan has failed – so don't move, unless you want a crossbow bolt in your chest." Oliver's words sounded confident, but inside he felt anything but; something was wrong, something was very wrong...

Slade laughed. "You think this is over? It's not over, Mr Queen – it's just begun!"

* * *

Hi everyone! Sorry there was no update last week - real life is incredibly busy at the moment. I hope that this chapter has made up for it - lots of Green Arrow action, with Ollie at his heroic best! But it's Slade's turn now - you just know it's not going be easy, don't you?

I'd expected to be posting this with everyone on a high after watching Collateral. What's with the delay? The CW deserve all the grief that they're getting at the moment.

Sorry to have to tell you this, but the next update won't be for another couple of weeks. The next chapter is big, and also shocking - I want to get it right, and work is still really crazy at the moment.

Thanks to all those of you who have posted reviews - you are amazing! Please do leave some feedback if you can - it means a lot, and might encourage me to post the next chappie a little faster!


	12. Chapter 12: The Tables Turned

**Chapter Twelve: The Tables Turned**

"Dean, I want you to get in the car and get out of here – now."

Oliver spoke quietly, his every word measured and controlled. Inside his heart was beating faster and faster, his senses responding to the danger that stood just a few feet away. His eyes were fixed on Slade, alert to his every move. Defeating the others had been little more than a prelude to this; Oliver knew that the confrontation to come was the one which really counted. There was something about this man, something which filled him with foreboding. He could not put his finger on it – perhaps it was his height, his strange half smile, or maybe the intense air of certainty that seemed to surround him. Whatever it was, Oliver knew that the threat he posed was immense – and that within seconds he would be locked into the fight of his life.

"I'm staying."

"Dean, you need to go - I can handle this."

Oliver knew that Dean wasn't going to listen, be he had to try. The young detective who stood alongside him was as stubborn as he was, and wasn't the type to cut and run when a friend was in need, whatever common sense might say. The two of them were very similar, in many ways; maybe that was why Oliver felt a special bond with him, and why he knew that at that moment any appeal to Dean's reason would be pointless.

"And walk away from a fight? No way, Oliver – I'm not going anywhere," said Dean.

"Your detective friend is brave – stupid, but brave."

Slade's words almost seemed to echo in the cool night air. He appeared serenely calm, as if the outcome of the next few minutes was in some way pre-ordained. The two men who faced him could not have appeared more different; in contrast to Slade's casual insouciance, Oliver and Dean were tense, waiting for the other man to make his move.

"Your friend Curry was brave, too," continued Slade, noticing the flicker of reaction he detected in the other man's eyes at the mention of Aquaman's name. "But eventually I broke him, just like I broke Stone and the kid – and just like I'll break you, Queen."

"What have you done with them?" asked Oliver, trying to match the confidence of his adversary. His worst fears had now been confirmed; the guys had indeed been captured.

"You'll find out, soon enough," replied Slade. "Now, shall we do this? You and I both know this can only end in one of two ways. Hell, I'll even make it easy for you – I'll let you have the first shot."

Slade slowly lifted his arms out to his sides, as if offering his body as a target. Oliver did not move, but continued to train his crossbow at the other man's head.

"Go ahead – shoot," urged Slade, smiling. "Kill me – or is the mighty Green Arrow nothing more than a gutless coward?"

Still Oliver did not respond. His hand tightened around the grip of his crossbow, his mind racing, trying to anticipate Slade's next move. He was goading him, but why? The shot was an easy one – just a light squeeze on the trigger and the other man would be on the ground in less than a second, a bolt embedded in his flesh. What was Slade up to? What was he not seeing?

"No? What's wrong, Queen – can't shoot a man in cold blood? That's why you Justice League boys are weak – you don't have the instincts of a killer."

"Yeah? Well I'll take my morality over yours any day," replied Oliver, sensing the moment of decision was fast approaching.

"Fine words, boy," said Slade, lowering his arms to his sides. "But words won't save you and your friend – not now."

Time seemed to stand still for a moment, the two men staring at each other. It was time – and they both knew it.

Suddenly Slade launched himself forwards, running towards Oliver and Dean with a speed that seemed impossible for a man of his size. Oliver did not have time to think; instinctively he fired at the huge figure who was now bearing down on them with apparently unstoppable force. He expected to see Slade stopped in his tracks, the bolt dropping him like a stone. Instead – incredibly – the other man dived to his left, dodging the bolt with an agility that seemed impossible. Oliver fired again, hoping that this time he would find his mark; Slade was momentarily motionless, crouching on the ground as he prepared to renew his attack.

The fate of the second bolt was even more remarkable than the first. Instead of burying itself in Slade's flesh, Oliver saw his adversary reach forwards and catch it in his right hand, just inches from his chest.

"That all you got, boy?" roared Slade, leaping to his feet and holding the bolt out in front of him. Oliver had no reply. He had just witnessed the impossible – one of his crossbow bolts, always so devastating, had been caught as if it were nothing more than a ball being thrown through the air. No man had ever done that before, and it was at that moment Oliver understood – understood why this man had made him so uneasy from the moment he had laid eyes on him. He should have trusted his sixth sense, because it was now terrifyingly obvious that this was no ordinary man who now stood before him – this man had abilities, abilities which were now to be unleashed against him.

"Run!" shouted Oliver, looking across at Dean. The other man returned his gaze, the shock in his eyes making it clear that he also understood. Dean said nothing, but just turned and made a break for the car. It was too late; Slade took aim, before hurling the crossbow bolt in the direction of the young detective. Horrified, Oliver could only watch, paralysed, as his young friend fell to the ground, his own bolt embedded in his right shoulder.

Oliver was overwhelmed. Just a couple of minutes before he had been the one to outmanoeuvre his opponents, dodging their tranquiliser darts with the speed and quick-footedness of a gymnast. Now, faced with the shock of Slade's assault, he felt bewildered. Events were spiralling out of control, and he didn't know how to claw it back...

His eyes were focused on Dean for little more than a second, but it was all the time that Slade needed. Oliver sensed movement, but before he had time to turn a blow of incredible force sent him flying through the air. He landed heavily near the edge of the fountain, his crossbow falling to the ground some feet away. Winded, he desperately tried to get to his feet, but again Slade was too quick for him. He barely had time to register Slade's enormous shadow looming over him when he felt the big man's hands wrap themselves around his throat and begin to squeeze.

"You should have taken your chance, boy," said Slade, his eyes flashing with excitement as he straddled Oliver, his hands pressing down ever harder on his neck. Oliver could not respond, the other man's stranglehold choking off his windpipe and starving him of oxygen. He reached up, hopelessly clawing at Slade's back in a vain attempt to save himself from what seemed to be the inevitable. Slade laughed; he was experiencing the rush he always felt at the moment he subdued his prey. The mighty Green Arrow, reduced to little more than a flailing child's doll in his clutches – _this _was what it was all about, why his trade was still the source of his greatest satisfaction. He could see the fear in Oliver's eyes, the knowledge that it would soon all be over – words had not been invented to express the thrill he felt at that moment, as the intoxication of victory overwhelmed him.

Oliver knew he was fast running out of time. Terrified, he could only stare upwards into the eyes of a man whose strength seemed only to be matched by his evil; he could see pleasure in those eyes, the pleasure of a killer who took delight in his work. He had to get free – somehow, before it was too late. He reached out to his sides, his hands groping across the grass to find something – anything – which he could use as a weapon. He could feel himself becoming light-headed - he had seconds left, if that. It was then that he felt it – an arrow, lying off to his left. It must have fallen out of his quiver when he had fallen, but Oliver did not have time to think about that – he simply picked up the arrow and rammed it with all the force he could muster into the other man's neck. Slade yelled out in pain, releasing Oliver as he rolled onto the ground in agony. Oliver took his chance, scrambling to safety even as he tried to force air into his lungs. Only once he was a few feet away did he pause and look back, to see Slade still lying on the ground, not moving.

The danger passed, Oliver rolled over onto his back, his chest heaving. His throat felt raw; so tight had been the grip of Slade that it was almost as if his hands were still wrapped around his neck. He was bruised, but otherwise unhurt. He lay for a moment, staring up at the night sky and allowing the silence to help calm his nerves. Who was that monster? The speed, the strength, the agility – Oliver had never encountered anyone like it, at least not from this world. Only Clark had powers that were comparable, which made his escape all the more miraculous. Not for the first time Oliver offered up a silent prayer of thanks – someone was watching over, that was for sure.

_Dean! _

The image of his friend falling to the ground, a crossbow bolt sticking out of his shoulder blade, sprang vividly into Oliver's mind. Was he okay? He pulled himself to his feet, checking that Slade was still unconscious before making his way over to where the detective lay. For a moment he feared the worst – Dean lay face down on the grass, and was showing no signs of life. Then a low groan sent a wave of relief flooding through him – Dean was alive!

Gently he rolled his friend over onto his side. Dean was conscious, although his face was etched with pain.

"Dean, it's okay – everything is going to be okay," whispered Oliver, his words cracked and hoarse after the attack.

"Hey – never doubted it," replied Dean weakly, a forced smile failing to hide his obvious discomfort.

Oliver looked at the bolt, which stuck shockingly out of Dean's shoulder. It had penetrated about two inches, but the wound was clean.

"Sorry, Dean, but this is gonna hurt a bit," he said, taking hold of the bolt. He saw his friend tense, in readiness for what was to come; he then pulled the bolt free in one swift movement.

Dean's agonised cry echoed in the cool night air, but Oliver was not the only one to hear it. A few feet away from where he was tending to his friend, Slade stirred. He had been surprised by Oliver's sudden attack, and for a moment the shock of having an arrow thrust so brutally into his body had rendered him immobile. Now, however, his regenerative powers were kicking in, fuelled by the anger he felt at allowing himself to be caught off guard by an opponent who was so obviously weaker than himself. Silently, he reached up to where the arrow protruded from his neck. Like Oliver, he too pulled the arrow from his flesh, but this time there was no scream. Even as he cast the arrow to one side the wound on his neck was beginning to heal; by the time he had got to his feet there was only the hint of a scar to mark where once there had been a potentially life-threatening wound. Slade turned, searching his immediate surroundings for his prey. Oliver was not far away, his back to Slade and oblivious to the danger that now was very close once more...

Oliver stood over Dean. He'd managed to remove the bolt cleanly, but his friend was in a lot of pain. He needed to get him to a doctor quickly, but first he needed to check in with Watchtower, to make sure that his route of escape was free of any unwelcome surprises.

He reached up to his earpiece. "Watchtower, this is Arrow. Do you read me? I have..."

Oliver did not have chance to complete his sentence. Instead he felt himself being picked up, before he was hurled through the air in the direction of his car. He landed full force on the hood, letting out an involuntary cry of pain as for the second time he was tossed around by his attacker as if he were nothing more than a rag doll. He did not have time to recover; Slade was immediately standing over him, reaching out and grabbing him by the neck. With one hand he lifted Oliver into the air, his face contorted with anger.

"Did you think you'd beaten me, boy?" he hissed, his hand squeezing ever tighter around Oliver's throat. "Did you? No one on this earth can beat me, Queen – and certainly not a pretty boy piece of shit like you!"

With that he again threw Oliver into the air, this time in the direction of the fountain. Oliver landed heavily, reeling from the ferocity of Slade's assault. Dazed, his mind struggled to understand what was happening. How could Slade have recovered so quickly? It was impossible – just impossible...

Again Slade's shadow fell over him. The big man grabbed him and hauled him to the fountain's edge. Stunned, Oliver was able to offer no resistance as Slade grabbed the back of his head and plunged him into the water. Oliver tried to resist, but Slade's grip was vice-like; all he could do was hold his breath, and pray that the fact they wanted him alive would mean that sooner or later he would be allowed to take a gulp of air.

The seconds passed. Oliver struggled, his natural survival instinct demanding that he resist, however hopeless the odds. Panic began to engulf him – perhaps this really was it? Perhaps this monster did intend to kill him after all? He could feel his lungs tightening, demanding air; he felt light-headed, as if he were about to lose consciousness. At last his resistance began to fade, as he slowly slipped away...

Suddenly he felt himself being pulled upwards. Cool air enveloped him, and he took a huge breath as he was dumped unceremoniously on the grass beside the fountain. Wide-eyed and helpless, all he could do was gulp air as his ruthless assailant stood over him, exultant.

"Did you like that, hero boy?" Slade sneered, enjoying the sight of his adversary so utterly defeated. "That's just a taste of what I've got in store for you, Queen. I'm going to make you pay for what you did – by the time I've finished with you you're going to wish you'd never been born."

Oliver tried to speak, but no words would come. Slade bent down, balling his hand into a fist. Grabbing Oliver by his tunic, he pulled him up off the ground.

"Sweet dreams, Green Arrow," he said, before driving his fist into Oliver's face. It was enough; Oliver slumped to the ground, unconscious.

* * *

"Wake up, you piece of shit!"

The words, so full of hate, penetrated the fog and confusion of Oliver's mind. He had no idea how long he'd been out, but memories of what had happened – images, words, sensations – were flooding back quickly now, swirling around in his head like some terrible nightmare. He ached all over, the beating he had received at the hands of Slade still all too real in his sore and battered muscles. But there was something new now – the touch of plastic twine against his wrists. He didn't need to open his eyes to understand – he knew immediately that he had been tied up. He was a prisoner now – powerless, he could only wait and wonder what his captors had in store.

"I said, WAKE UP!"

A powerful kick to the stomach meant that this time Oliver could not ignore the man who was standing over him. He recognised the voice now; it was Hoskins, clearly recovered from the darts that had hit him earlier.

"Think you could get one over on me, did you?" said Hoskins venomously, spitting out his words in a barely controlled rage. "Look at you, Queen – you're pathetic, you know that? A WORTHLESS – PATHETIC – PIECE – OF –SHIT!"

Every word of Hoskins' final sentence was accompanied by a kick to Oliver's gut. All of the DA's pent up frustration – the anger he had felt at being captured by Oliver, the humiliation of being a hostage, tied up and gagged in the boot of a car, the terror of being caught in the crossfire between Oliver and Cohen's hired muscle – all that was now pouring out, finding its release in a merciless attack on the young hero who lay helpless on the ground before him. Oliver could do nothing but roll himself up into a ball as he was kicked time and time again; his body pulsated in agony as each blow seemed more vicious than the last. After the beating he had received at the hands of Slade, this was almost more than he could take, and yet he knew that was almost certainly only the beginning...

"That's enough, Hoskins," said a woman's voice, who Oliver recognised as Cohen. "We need him alive, remember?"

Hoskins paused, his face flushed with hatred for the man who had so comprehensively humiliated him. He leaned down, so that his face was close to Oliver's.

"Don't think this is over, Queen," he hissed. "We're going to take you apart, and I'm going to be there every step of the way."

"Get him up."

On Cohen's order Hoskins stepped aside, to make way for two of her men. Rough hands grabbed Oliver by the arms and pulled him to his feet. His head spun for a moment, but when eventually he opened his eyes he found himself standing face to face with Cohen.

"So here you are," said his captor, barely able to conceal her smirk as she ran her fingers down the zip of Oliver's tunic. "The Green Arrow, all tied up – you have no idea how much I've looked forward to this moment, Mr Queen."

"Hey, the feeling's not mutual," replied Oliver, pulling against the strong grip of the two men who stood to either side of him.

Cohen smiled. "Always ready with the wisecrack, aren't you? Let's see whether you're so brave without that hood you hide behind."

She reached up, pulling off Oliver's hood and removing his glasses. Oliver scowled defiantly his true identity was laid bare, fixing Cohen with a flint-like stare.

"And there you are," said Cohen, her eyes flashing with excitement as she surveyed her prize. "Your pictures don't do you justice, Mr Queen – you really are a handsome one, aren't you?"

She reached out, taking him by the chin as if to examine him in greater detail. Oliver flicked his head to the side, the woman's touch making his flesh crawl.

"Get your hands off me, you bitch!" he hissed, determined to defy his captors in whatever way he could. He expected Cohen to respond, but instead he suddenly felt a hand grab his hair and pull his head back, stretching him so far that Oliver felt as though the sinews in his neck would snap.

"You will show some respect, boy!" said a voice, just inches from Oliver's right ear. Oliver's blood ran cold; it was the voice of Slade.

"Now apologise to the lady," Slade continued, still holding Oliver's hair in a vice-like grip. He spoke quietly, but with an intensity that made it clear he expected to be obeyed.

"Go to hell," whispered Oliver, wincing in pain; Slade's stinking breath filled his nostrils, and he could sense the other man's adrenalin, his feelings of power and exhilaration at having cornered and snared his prey.

"Apologise, or I will make your detective friend here suffer."

Out of the corner of his eye Oliver was aware of movement. He looked, to see a sight that filled him with despair: Dean, held firmly between two of Cohen's men and with his hands tied behind his back.

"Do you want to see me cut him open, Queen? Don't think I wouldn't – I always enjoy hearing a cop squeal like a pig," continued Slade, savouring the effect his words were having on his two captives. He could sense Oliver's fear, see it in the whites of his eyes; already the Green Arrow's veneer of invincibility was beginning to crack, and the prospect of what lay in store over the next few hours and days left him salivating in expectation of what was to come.

"So what's it to be, hero boy? Will you apologise to my friend here, or do I start to slice up the handsome detective?"

"Okay, okay - I'm sorry," said Oliver, realising that he had no choice; protecting Dean meant that he had to give his captor the satisfaction of hearing him submit.

Slade released Oliver from his grip, casually pushing the young hero's head forwards before circling round to join Cohen in front of him. Chillingly, Oliver saw for the first time that he was holding his crossbow, a bolt in place and ready to fire.

"Look, you've got me – let Dean go," he pleaded, hoping – vainly – that in some way he might still be able to save his friend, even as he himself had to accept whatever they had in store for him.

"You want us to let Dean go? What do you think, Miss Cohen? Should we let the detective go?"

"Well, if Mr Queen wants us to let him go – I guess we'd better do as he says, yeah?"

Cohen and Slade exchanged knowing glances. Something about the way they spoke unnerved Oliver; it was as if they had expected this, as if his plea had played right into their hands...

"You heard Mr Queen – let him go," ordered Cohen, looking across at the two men who held Dean. They immediately complied, stepping aside and leaving Dean standing alone by the fountain, a free man.

"What are you waiting for, detective? You can go – we've got what we wanted."

Dean did not move. Confused, he looked at Oliver; both men sensed a trap, but neither yet understood the terrifying truth.

"I said, go!" ordered Cohen, pulling out a knife and thrusting it under Oliver's chin. "Go, or pretty boy here will suffer – do you want that?"

Still Dean hesitated. He saw the knife pressing against his friend's skin, the look of anticipation in Cohen's eyes; he could see that she wanted to cut Oliver, to make him scream. He couldn't allow that to happen, so at that moment he made his decision – he decided to run.

He started to back away, not once taking his eyes from where Oliver stood, at the mercy of Cohen. Then, after a few steps, he turned. He began to run - slowly at first, before picking up speed as the adrenalin started to pump through his body. He hated himself for abandoning his friend, but he knew that he had no choice. Whatever they had planned, he consoled himself with the knowledge that he had a chance now; he was free, and if he could just make it out of this park alive...

Slade watched as Dean began to run across the grass which surrounded the fountain. It was dark, but the light of the moon meant that the detective's path could be clearly seen; it was more than enough to allow him to carry out his task. He raised the crossbow, carefully taking aim...

Oliver understood now. He wanted to struggle, to get free and wrestle the other man to the ground before it was too late, but the knife which pressed against his neck made this impossible.

"Please...please don't this!" he begged, but it was too late; Slade released the bolt, and in the distance Dean's body could be seen falling to the ground.

"No!" shouted Oliver desperately, as if somehow he could undo what he had just seen.

"Sssshhhh," said Cohen, enjoying the young hero's agony at seeing his friend cut down. "You didn't really think we were going to let him go, did you?"

"I'll kill you for this! I swear, I will hunt you down and kill you!" snarled Oliver, tears of rage and grief streaming down his face.

"Deal with him," said Slade, before turning and making his way out towards where Dean had fallen.

Cohen removed the knife from Oliver's neck. He immediately began struggling wildly, sensing that it might not be too late to save his friend. But the grip of the two men who held him was unrelenting, and he could do nothing as Slade continued to bear down on Dean's stricken body. Cohen, meanwhile, was making ready to leave. The operation had been a success, and it was now time to get their prize safely into captivity. She pulled a tiny syringe from her jacket, before grabbing Oliver by the hair once more. He resisted like a wild animal, turning his head this way and that and thrashing around as far as the hold of his captors would allow. He was only postponing the inevitable; Cohen soon found her mark, emptying the contents of the syringe into Oliver's neck.

"Time to rest now, Mr Queen," she said, watching as Oliver's resistance ebbed away. The sedative worked quickly, and within seconds he had stopped struggling; his eyelids flickered, before he slipped silently into unconsciousness.

"Put him in the trunk," ordered Cohen. She watched as Oliver's lifeless body was dragged away, his heavy boots leaving a trail in the grass as he was hauled towards Slade's car. Slade himself was now standing over Dean, who lay helpless on the ground some forty or so feet from where he started his escape attempt. The detective was curled up on his side, a green crossbow bolt protruding grotesquely from his back. Blood was seeping abundantly from the wound, but Dean was still alive; he stared up at Slade, a mixture of pain and defiance flashing in his eyes. Neither man spoke as Slade lifted the crossbow and aimed it at point blank range at Dean's head; both knew what had to happen. Slade's finger squeezed the trigger, and it was over – Dean Caruso was dead, a crossbow bolt embedded in his forehead.

Slade turned and walked casually back towards the cars. Cohen's men were busy, removing evidence and preparing the scene for the next act in the drama that Lex had planned so meticulously. He would not be there to see it, of course – he had a date with the vigilante now lying unconscious in the trunk of his car, a date he was eager to begin.

"Is he dead?" asked Hoskins, looking out towards where Dean had fallen as Slade rejoined the group.

"He's dead – with two of Queen's crossbow bolts sticking out of him," replied Slade, brandishing the weapon that he had just used to such lethal effect.

"Perfect!" exclaimed Hoskins, barely able to contain his excitement. "When the cops show up they'll find his body – and I'll be here to tell them exactly how the Green Arrow murdered the city's favourite hero in cold blood."

"There's just one more thing – one more thing we need to do to make your story fly."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"This."

Suddenly, and without warning, Slade lifted the crossbow and fired it at Hoskins. The other man cried out in agony as a bolt embedded itself in his left shoulder, staggering backwards with shock.

"What the hell! You...you...shot me!" he gasped incredulously, staring wide-eyed at the bolt that now stuck out of his shoulder.

"Like I said, we need to make your story fly – with one of Queen's bolts sticking out of you who's going to doubt your story?" replied Slade. He turned and began making his way over to his car, leaving the hapless DA whimpering in his wake. He walked around to the back where Cohen stood waiting, the trunk still open.

Both stared down at the lifeless figure of Oliver, apparently sleeping peacefully.

"You've got twenty-four hours," said Cohen. "And remember – he's not to be marked."

Slade smiled.

"I know the deal," he replied. "And don't worry – I'll deliver pretty boy in one piece."

He reached up and took hold of the hatch, slamming it down hard. He was keen to get started – twenty-four hours was long time, and he had a lot planned for Oliver Queen.

* * *

You knew this was coming, didn't you? Slade had to win, but did you guess that Dean would die? I'm sorry to say goodbye - I enjoyed writing him, but he had to die if the second half of the story is going to make sense. Hope you enjoyed the action and drama - this has been a difficult chapter to write, so I hope you feel it works.

Lots more angst to come - believe me, you have only seen hints of how evil Luthor's plan for Oliver is. Talking of Lex, great to hear that Michael R. is coming back for the show's finale - I just want to see as much Chlollie/Oliver/Green Arrow as possible over these last few episodes *feels sad*

Thanks for reading. Please do leave a review if you can - I am desperate to hear what you think! It doesn't take long, and it makes me very happy, so please - leave some feedback!


	13. Chapter 13: A Wanted Man

**Chapter Thirteen: A Wanted Man**

Lex stood at the window of his office, sipping his first coffee of the day. The late morning sun was blazing brightly in a clear blue sky, glinting in the glass of the windows of the building opposite and making even the drab warehouses that currently housed his operation appear vibrant and fresh. He hated the fact that he was stuck here, but consoled himself that his voluntary imprisonment would soon be over. A few weeks hiding out was a small price to pay for the pleasure of seeing Oliver and his band of freaks finally being made to suffer for what they had done.

He felt at peace – more at peace than he had done for a long time. All the weeks of planning were finally coming to fruition, and now, at last, the final act had begun. How different things had been just nine or so hours before. He'd been on edge then, unable to rest until he'd had confirmation that they'd succeeded in taking Oliver. So often he'd come close to destroying his rival, only to be denied; he'd hardly dared to hope that this time, at long last, he would be successful. When, after what had seemed like hours of waiting, he'd taken the call from Cohen...well, the relief he'd felt at that moment was almost too blissful to put into words. He'd been cheated of his prize so many times before, but now, finally, the waiting was over. Oliver's luck had run out – and now his revenge, so elaborately prepared, could begin.

A knock at the door caused him to turn. Cohen entered, carrying with her a couple of newspapers.

"I thought you might like to see these, sir," she said, smiling broadly. "The Planet and the Star have rushed out new editions."

For Metropolis's two main newspapers to rush out morning editions was almost unprecedented. Lex had hoped that something like this would happen, but he'd not been certain; the fact that they had felt the events of last night sufficiently important to take this step was a sign that the media reaction was likely to exceed his expectations. He felt a frisson of excitement as he took the newspapers from Cohen's hand – would their take on Caruso's death be what he hoped for?

The sight of a single word was enough to give Lex his answer:

_**SLAIN**_

The headline, emblazoned across the front page of the Planet, was brutal in its simplicity. Beneath it there was a photo of Dean, smiling proudly at the ceremony at which he had been given his award for bravery. He was a handsome guy, every inch the heroic young cop that the city had fallen in love with the previous year. The editor clearly knew his trade. Dean's face stared out from the front page, demanding your sympathy – and your anger, anger at a young life so cruelly cut short. But it was what was written below Dean's photo that gave Lex the greatest thrill:

_**BRAVE COP MURDERED BY GREEN ARROW **_

It was perfect - he couldn't have written the headline better himself. The press had clearly accepted Hoskins' version of events – after all, why wouldn't they? – and now the destruction of the reputation of Oliver's alter ego was complete. Lex found it sweetly ironic – Oliver had tried so hard to save the life of his friend, but in doing so had made it all too easy for Slade to set him up for Caruso's murder. The heroic young detective, shot in the back as he tried to save the life of the city's DA – not even Lois Lane could stop the Planet from running with a story that hot.

"The Star's even better, sir," said Cohen.

She was right. This time it was not a picture of Dean which dominated the front page, but an artist's impression of the Green Arrow, over which screamed the headline:

_**BRING THIS KILLER TO JUSTICE!**_

"The gentlemen of the press really seem to have surpassed themselves this time, don't they?" purred Lex, scanning the stories which accompanied each headline.

"Yes, sir," replied Cohen. "They're baying for the Green Arrow's blood – he's public enemy number one."

"And when is Hoskins giving his news conference?"

"Around now, sir – it's being shown live."

Lex picked up the remote from his desk and pointed it at the television which was mounted on the wall. Immediately Hoskins appeared on the screen, surrounded by a sea of microphones and cameras. The press conference was well under way, and Hoskins, ever the polished media performer, was giving the journalists just the sort of scoop they wanted.

"_...Detective Dean Caruso was a true hero, cut down in the line of duty_," he said, his voice sombre as he addressed his eager audience. "_I owe him my life – and I will not rest until the Green Arrow is brought to justice for this terrible crime."_

"_Can you tell us any more about what happened?"_ shouted a voice off camera. "_Is it true Detective Caruso was shot in the back?"_

"_The Green Arrow kidnapped me – told me he was going to kill me for exposing the truth about his raids on our banks_," replied Hoskins. "_Dean had been investigating the vigilante, and we were due to meet at my office. When he saw me being abducted, he followed us to the park. He fought with the Arrow, and managed to untie me, but when we were making our escape we were both hit. I saw Dean go down, shot in the back – I wanted to stay with him, but he told me to run. I can't tell you how much I wish I'd stayed – perhaps I could have done something, anything, to help him get away."_

"Hoskins knows how to work an audience – he's got them eating out of the palm of his hand," murmured Cohen. Lex agreed; Hoskins was giving the performance of his life, his voice cracking with emotion as he gave his entirely fictitious account of how Dean met his death.

"_He killed him in cold blood,"_ he continued, a tear now clearly visible running down the side of his face. _"The Green Arrow stood over him and shot him at point blank range – it's something that will stay with me for the rest of my life."_

"_What's being done to capture the Archer?" _shouted another voice.

"_Every police officer in this city is working flat out to apprehend this killer,"_ replied Hoskins, his face clouding with anger as he stared straight into the camera. _"We will bring him to justice – you have my word. And can I just say to the people of this city – if you know anything, anything at all, that could help us find this man, do not hesitate to let the authorities know. The Green Arrow's reign of terror must be brought to an end before..."_

Lex turned off the television – he'd seen enough. He disliked Hoskins; like all politicians, he was vain and self-serving. However, he had played his part to perfection – after hearing his account of Caruso's death there wouldn't be a person in the city who doubted the Green Arrow's guilt. The fact that he himself had been shot by one of Oliver's crossbow bolts simply added to the impression that the man the city had once worshipped as a hero was in fact an out of control killer who needed to be stopped at all costs. Rarely could a reputation have been so completely destroyed in such a small space of time – Green Arrow, from hero to Metropolis's most wanted man.

Lex turned back towards the window, looking out across the rooftops. What was Oliver thinking now, he wondered. Did he suspect the truth? Almost certainly not – as far as Oliver was concerned Lex Luthor was dead. And that would make the ordeal that he was about to endure all the more delicious – the fact that he would not know the identity of his tormentor in chief, the hidden hand that step by step would strip him of everything he ever valued. Only at the end, when all was lost, would Lex finally reveal himself – the ultimate triumph over the rival.

Slade had Oliver now, of course – that was part of the deal. Lex smiled as he thought of what Oliver was about to suffer at the hands of his powerful ally. Slade was brutal, merciless – and the fact that Oliver had dared to resist him would make his vengeance even more horrific than that suffered by the other members of the League. Oliver was about to experience twenty-four hours of hell – and that was just the start.

* * *

Slade tightened the last bolt on the iron frame, before grasping one of the metal struts and shaking it hard. The structure stood firm, its sturdy design ready to withstand any amount of punishment. Slade was satisfied; the frame would need to be strong if it was to effectively restrain his prisoner through the long hours that lay ahead. He stood for a moment, the half light cast from the single bulb which illuminated his chamber of horrors casting his construction in a suitably menacing light. It had taken him an hour or so to complete, but now he was ready – it was time to begin.

Slade turned towards his prey. Any normal person would have gasped in horror at the sight which met his eyes, but Slade was no ordinary person. He lived for moments like these, when he could savour the rewards of a hunt successfully completed. It was not enough to simply torture his victims; he needed to hear their screams, feed on their fear as they knew that there could be no escape from the terrors that awaited them. Now, more than ever, he was hungry for that thrill – the thrill of breaking the heroic young leader of the Justice League.

Oliver hung about five feet off the floor, suspended in the air by the same enormous hook that had held Bart a couple of days earlier. But Oliver did not hang by his arms; instead thick chains encircled his heavy boots, holding him upside down over the hard concrete floor. The mode of restraint was quite deliberate. Slade wanted to disorientate his captive, deny him the opportunity to recover his strength before the torture began. To that end he had also tied a bag over the young hero's head, robbing him of his power of sight; Slade knew that over the last hour all manner of thoughts and fears must have swirled around in Oliver's head as he could only listen to the sounds of the frame being built just a few feet from where he hung. Thick ropes cut into Oliver's body, encircling his legs, torso and arms and binding him so tightly his muscles bulged painfully against the their bonds. The overall effect was one of complete submission; like a hunted animal finally caught and hung up for display, Oliver was utterly helpless and at the mercy of his captor.

Slowly Slade walked around his victim. He said nothing, so that the only sound that could be heard was Oliver's labored breathing. Slade could sense the other man's fear, his dread at what was to come; he found it intoxicating, a thrill like no other.

He leaned in, so that his face was just a few inches from Oliver's ear.

"Waiting's over, pretty boy," he whispered. He paused for a moment, enjoying the quickening of Oliver's breathing. He then took hold of the hood and pulled it away, so that at long last Oliver could view his makeshift prison.

"Welcome to my world, Oliver Queen," continued Slade, staring at his captive. Oliver could not respond, several strips of duck tape smeared across his mouth and wrapped so tightly around his head it looked as if they would slice into his cheeks. Oliver's eyes, however, spoke volumes; they blazed with fury, filled with an impotent rage that could find no other outlet. Slade was pleased – instinctively he knew that he was going to enjoy breaking the Green Arrow, more than he'd ever enjoyed breaking a man before.

"See that cross over there, Queen?" he asked, looking across at the large St Andrew's cross on which he had tortured AC. "That's where I broke your friend Aquaman. He was brave, like you – but in the end he broke. Wept like a baby, crying out for his mommy. How long will it take for you to break, hero boy? What do you think? An hour? Two hours? Four? It doesn't really matter how long it takes, because you _will_ break – just like all the rest of your freakish little gang."

Oliver grunted angrily into his gag, straining against the ropes which bound him so cruelly.

Slade laughed. "That's right, Green Arrow – you struggle. It won't do you any good, because you're mine now – and I intend to torture you, torture you so bad you'll wish you'd never been born. And you know what? I'm going to do it without leaving a mark on that pretty little face of yours – not one."

Again Oliver struggled, but to no avail. Slade stepped behind him, picking up a roll of saran wrap from the bench...

"Do you know what it's like to suffocate, Mr Queen?" he asked, coming up behind Oliver. "They say it's one of the worst ways to die..."

Without warning Slade reached out and began wrapping the roll of saran around Oliver's head. Round and round it went, layer upon layer stretched taut across Oliver's face and the back of his head. Caught off guard, Oliver did not immediately understand what was happening; when he did, he began to struggle violently, twisting his head this way and that to try to shake off Slade's assault. It was too late; the saran clung to his sweat-drenched face like glue. When eventually Slade had finished, Oliver's entire head was encased in the wrap, grotesquely smeared across his face like some terrible death mask.

As Oliver struggled desperately to break free of his bonds Slade stood back, laughing. He caught a glimpse of Oliver's eyes beneath the wrap, the defiance of moments earlier now replaced with a look of pure terror. He watched as the young hero bucked and writhed with all the strength he could muster against the ropes and chains which held him, fighting for the breath that would keep him alive.

"Enjoying this, boy?" he jeered. "Because I'm just getting started!"

* * *

Poor Ollie! I told you things were going to get bad for our guy. Hope you enjoyed this one - lots more angst and action to come, I promise. Chloe's back next chapter - along with Clark (yes, Clark) and more torment for Oliver. There's a shocking twist ahead, too - you have been warned!

I enjoyed Masquerade (but I enjoy all Ollie episodes) - loved the Chlollie and the action, although I wish Ollie had suited up at the end. And what about that final shot - yikes! I won't spoil it, just in case you haven't seen it, but it makes me both excited and scared; excited, because it should mean Ollie gets a strong story arc for the remainder of the season, and scared, because it might mean bad things for my hero!

Thanks for your continuing support for my writing. Please, do post a review if you can - without feedback I'm not sure whether I would have the motivation to keep on posting up fresh chapters.


	14. Chapter 14: Frantic

**Chapter Fourteen: Frantic**

_They want me alive...They can't kill me, they want me alive!_

The small voice inside Oliver's head was right – he knew that. But, as he struggled against the chains that held him, twisting his body this way and that in a desperate attempt to shake off the layers of saran wrap that had been so mercilessly wrapped around his head, that voice of reason found it impossible to make itself heard. Instead it was fear that overwhelmed Oliver – a cold, blind terror, as the seconds passed and still he could not take a breath. Slade had taken him unawares, so he had not had time to fill his lungs before the wrap had been smeared grotesquely across his face, cutting off his air supply to such devastating effect. It seemed faintly bizarre that a material normally so weak that a baby could tear right through it was now within seconds of robbing him of his life. But he was powerless, unable to reach up and pull it from his face; all he could do was squirm like a worm on a hook, hoping that the sadist who held him captive would soon grant him some form of release.

How long had it been now? Fifteen seconds? Thirty? He had no idea. Still he struggled, writhing frantically as his lungs tightened, warning him that they could not take much more of this. Through the layers of the wrap he could just make out Slade, standing not two feet away from where he hung. How long would he let this go on for? Surely he knew he wouldn't be able to take much more...

He was panicking now. His lungs burned with pain, and his throat felt so tight it was as if someone had hold of it and was squeezing it with all their might. He made one last hopeless bid to escape his bonds, throwing his whole body forwards in the direction of Slade with all the force he could muster. It was a pathetically futile gesture; his reserves of energy spent, he remained a prisoner, swinging hopelessly in the air.

"How's it feel, pretty boy?" laughed Slade, watching his prey's last attempt to break free fail. "Not such a tough guy now, are you?"

Oliver had stopped struggling now. He stared wide-eyed at the blurry figure of Slade, hoping that now, at last, he would see that it was time for this game to end – it was time to let him breathe again. But Slade did not move. Seconds passed; precious seconds, seconds that seemed to edge Oliver ever closer to oblivion. His head hurt now, and he could feel himself becoming light headed. He was slipping away – slipping into the darkness...

At last Slade stepped forward. Taking a knife from his belt, he grabbed Oliver's head, before piercing the wrap which covered his nostrils. Drifting close to unconsciousness, Oliver sensed the cool air; instinctively he breathed in deeply, filling his aching lungs.

"Did you think you were going to die, Queen?" whispered Slade malevolently, just inches from Oliver's ear. "You don't get off that easy, boy. That was just the beginning – I've got so many more games I wanna play with you, Mr hot-shot hero."

With that he reached up, taking hold of a button which hung from an electric flex attached to the ceiling. He pressed it, releasing the chain which attached Oliver to the hook. Oliver barely had time to register what was happening before he landed heavily on the hard concrete floor, rolling awkwardly onto his side. He lay there for a moment, breathing heavily through the tiny airway that Slade had cut in his obscene mask; trussed up and gagged, he appeared as helpless as a fish lying gasping on the deck of a fishing boat.

"Look at you, you worthless piece of shit!" said Slade contemptuously, pushing Oliver onto his back with his boot. "Your friends had abilities, but you? You're nothing – just a pretty rich boy playing at being a hero. Caruso was more of a man than you, and now he's dead – dead because you were too weak to save him."

Behind his mask, Oliver's eyes flashed with rage. He grunted into his gag, eager to show the man who towered above him that he was not yet defeated, and that his spirit continued to blaze strongly.

It was a mistake. Sensing that his captive was recovering, Slade placed the heel of his boot on Oliver's head, pressing downwards so that the young hero's face was ground into the dirt.

"What was that, boy?" he shouted, like a schoolyard bully tormenting his victim. "Do you want some more, is that it? Do you want me to show you what I did to Curry and the kid?"

Oliver did not respond. Something of his strength had returned, but the knot of fear that had been gnawing away at his gut was drawing ever tighter. He knew that his captor was intent on hurting him, and something deep within him told him that what this man had planned would make all the other tortures he had endured seem like a walk in the park. And he was helpless to stop it – trapped, he had never felt so vulnerable, so completely powerless.

Slade removed his boot, before kicking Oliver in the ribs. Oliver curled up in agony, but Slade was relentless. Without saying another word, he grabbed Oliver by the neck and lifted him off the floor. The strength of the man was amazing; with one hand he held the stricken hero aloft, before turning and slamming him down hard onto the steel frame that he had constructed. Winded and struggling once more to breathe, he was aware that Slade was removing some of the rope that had been used to bind him. Sensing an opportunity, he began to struggle, only to be slapped hard around the face.

"Stop struggling, boy!" he hissed.

Dazed, Oliver did as he was told. Expertly Slade began to strap the young hero onto the frame. Thick leather straps were pulled tight around Oliver's chest, abdomen and legs, securely anchoring him in place. Oliver's arms were then lifted up and out to his sides, before they too were fastened into leather cuffs. The result was to make it appear as if Oliver had his hands up, surrendering to his foe. In less than a minute the job was done, Oliver once again rendered completely immobile by his bonds.

Slade stood back and admired his work. Oliver was breathing heavily, his head resting on his chest. He had taken a beating, but he had not yet been broken. That was exactly as Slade wanted it – it would only heighten the thrill of what was to come.

He was ready - it was time to begin.

* * *

Chloe stood still on the sidewalk, staring at the large glass doors in front of her. It was early afternoon, and around her crowds of shoppers hurried by. Some frowned at having to sidestep the young woman who stood like an island amidst the great tide of humanity, but Chloe was too preoccupied to notice; she only had eyes for those doors, beyond which lay the answers to the hundred and one questions that continued to swirl around in her head.

She looked terrible. She hadn't slept in over twenty four hours, and it showed; her face looked drawn, her tiredness made worse by the strain of the events of the previous night. It was nearly twelve hours since Oliver had gone missing – twelve hours since his last communication with Watchtower. Even now she could hear the sound of his last words echoing in her head, before some unseen hand had cut the line. It made her physically sick just to think of it. She'd tried to raise him again, tried for over an hour, but it had been no use – he was gone. Worse still, his tracker, which had allowed her to monitor his every move in mission after mission, had ceased to transmit. Every attempt to locate him had failed, as even Watchtower's systems had drawn a blank. The Green Arrow, like the rest of his team before him, had fallen off the grid; it was as if he'd disappeared into thin air.

Anxiety turning to fear, she'd driven to the park in the hope of finding something that would give her a clue as to what had happened. She knew that something terrible had occurred, and for a few awful minutes, as she'd sat in her car watching the police swarm over the area, she had believed the worst. The sight of an ambulance pulling out of the park gates had been almost too much to bear. Part of her thought he was dead at that moment – that after all they had endured together, after all they had meant to each other, it really was all over. It is impossible to put into words what she felt at that moment, the unutterable sense of desolation that swept over her at the thought that she would never again hold him in her arms, feel the soft touch of his kiss on her lips. When, after what must have been the longest ten minutes of her life, she had finally managed to find out from one of the cops on duty that in fact it was Dean who had been killed, she had been unable to contain herself. She had thrown up on the side of the road, her raw relief mixed with guilt and shame. After all, Oliver might still be alive, but Dean was dead – and she was no nearer knowing the truth about what had happened after Oliver's last transmission to Watchtower. She had returned to base empty handed, with more questions than answers.

The hours had passed. The waiting had been almost unendurable, the knot of terror in her gut seeming to tighten with every passing minute. What had happened in that park? Had Oliver been captured, or had he escaped? His silence indicated the former, but there was the possibility that he had managed to get away, but was now lying injured somewhere, desperately in need of medical attention. If he had been taken, who had him? The same people who were responsible for the disappearance of AC, Bart and Victor? What did they want? The questions had kept coming, each more worrying than the last. They had swirled around in her head, demanding answers that she did not have. She felt alone, and helpless – what was she to do?

Then there had been Hoskins' press conference. She had watched, appalled, as the Green Arrow had been blamed for Dean's death. It had all begun to make a little more sense then – Oliver had been set up, no longer the city's hero but now a cold-blooded cop killer. Chloe sensed that she was seeing just the tip of a far wider conspiracy, a plan designed to destroy the reputation of the Green Arrow and wipe out the Justice League for good. Whoever was behind it, they had influence and resources. Instinctively, she knew that Hoskins was just a front – he didn't have the intelligence or the courage to undertake an operation on this scale. Someone else was behind this, but who?

Hoskins was her only lead. Only he knew what had really happened at the park, and what had happened to Oliver and the others. And so here she was, standing outside the building which housed Hoskins' office, the same building from which Oliver had snatched the DA less than twenty-four hours earlier. Was it really only that long ago? So much had happened since then, those events seemed to belong to another world. Part of her knew that coming here was crazy – after all, Hoskins was hardly likely to confess all, was he? But she was desperate, so desperate that she would do anything. She had to act – and to her exhausted, fragile mind, this seemed like the only option.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward and entered the building. The lobby was filled with people, but Chloe barely noticed them; instead, gathering what few reserves of mental energy she had left, she marched purposefully towards the reception desk.

"I want to see Hoskins," she demanded, aware as she spoke that she sounded more aggressive than she intended; if she wanted to get to the DA, she would need to display considerably more charm.

"Mr Hoskins is not seeing anyone today," came the curt reply from the man behind the desk, obviously unimpressed by Chloe's opening pitch.

"I need to see him – please, it's important," continued Chloe, her voice softer this time. She managed a half smile, but it was not reciprocated; the man behind the desk appeared in no mood to compromise.

"If you want to make an appointment, then he has some time available next week," he replied, stony-faced. "But as you may have seen on the news, he's very busy at the moment."

"I don't want an appointment – I need to see him now!" snapped Chloe, her tiredness showing.

"I'm sorry, but that's just not possible."

At that moment an elevator door to the left of the reception desk opened. Chloe looked, and couldn't believe her luck – five men emerged, including none other than Hoskins himself.

"Do you think you're going to get away with this?" she said breathlessly, almost throwing herself in his path. Hoskins came to a halt abruptly, a look of puzzlement on his face quickly giving way to a half smile as he recognised the young woman who now blocked his way.

"Chloe Sullivan, isn't it? I recognise you from the papers," he said smoothly, turning to the four men who flanked him. "This is Oliver Queen's fiancé, gentlemen. How is Oliver? I haven't seen him around lately."

Hoskins fixed Chloe with a knowing stare. She understood immediately; he knew everything, and was daring her to do her worst.

"I know you're lying – I know you're lying about Dean Caruso's death," said Chloe loudly, hoping that as many people as possible would hear. She knew that Hoskins had the upper hand, but was determined to make a scene, to embarrass him as much as she could.

"That's quite some accusation, Miss Sullivan," replied Hoskins, his smile widening slightly. "Do you have any evidence to back it up?"

Again he stared at Chloe, silently challenging her to say more. He knew she couldn't; if she revealed the truth of what she knew then Oliver's secret identity would be exposed. That might have been a price worth paying, if it would save Oliver's life, but the fact remained that she did not have any evidence that would exonerate the Green Arrow. The set up was water-tight; the only witness to Dean's death was Hoskins, and who would take her word against his?

"I know what you're trying to do - you're trying to frame the Green Arrow," she continued defiantly. A crowd was beginning to gather, intrigued by the little drama that was unfolding; unfortunately for Chloe, she, rather than Hoskins, was the person who appeared to be losing control.

"Frame the Green Arrow? He tried to kill me, Miss Sullivan – or hadn't you noticed."

Hoskins glanced down at his arm, which was cradled in a sling.

"You're a liar, Hoskins. Who are you working for? Who's paying you to do this?" Chloe sounded desperate now, as all her attempts to unsettle Hoskins came to nothing.

"I think you need to go home and calm down, Miss Sullivan. Perhaps you should give Oliver a call – or maybe he's run off and left you? Is that what all this is about? Is Oliver up to his old tricks – playing around with another woman, maybe?"

Unable to contain herself, Chloe lunged at Hoskins. He neatly sidestepped her attack, so that she ended up sprawled in a heap on the floor. There was an audible gasp from the crowd; Hoskins, eager to show that he was unfazed by Chloe's accusations, leaned down to help her to her feet.

"You need to get some rest, Miss Sullivan – something has clearly made you very distressed," he announced loudly as he pulled her off the floor. He then pulled her close, so that just for a moment he was able to whisper into her ear:

"_We've got your boyfriend, Chloe,"_ he hissed, his words audible only to her. _"Now you be a good little bitch and keep that mouth of yours shut, or the next time you see leather boy we'll be returning him to you in a box."_

He let her go, smiling once more for the benefit of the crowd. Chloe said nothing; stunned, she simply stared at Hoskins.

"Stevens, Dyson – please escort Miss Sullivan from the building and see that she's put in a taxi. She needs to go home – she's clearly not well."

Two of Hoskins men grabbed Chloe by the arms and began to guide her towards the exit. Chloe offered no resistance, and within a few seconds she found herself out on the sidewalk. Only then did she struggle free of the two men, brushing them off with a scowl. They needed no further encouragement to leave her, and very quickly she found herself once more standing alone.

So it was true – Oliver had been captured. At least she knew he was alive, although that was little consolation. What was she thinking, coming here and confronting Hoskins? Sure, she knew a little more, but at what cost? Oliver was a prisoner, and so were the rest of the guys – the last few minutes had done nothing to change that fundamental truth. She was no nearer knowing who was behind all this. She felt completely powerless, trapped by forces that were far beyond her control. Worse still, she had revealed her hand, and now Oliver was in even greater danger. Hoskins' threat had been terrifyingly clear; if she went to the cops or the press then they would not hesitate to kill him.

Suddenly an image of Oliver appeared in her mind. She could see him wading out of the warm waters that surrounded his island paradise, the water glistening off his toned skin as he ran towards her, smiling that smile that never failed to melt her heart.

Would she ever see that smile again? Suddenly a great wave of emotion seemed to well up from deep within her, the strain of all that had happened at last demanding release. She could not help herself; alone and fearful, the tears began to flow down her cheeks.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. Thinking it was one of Hoskins' men, she turned around angrily.

"Get your hands..."

She stopped abruptly, a surge of relief flooding over her. Instead of one of Hoskins' men, she found herself staring into the eyes of Clark Kent.

"Clark!" she gasped, throwing herself into his arms and burying her head in his chest. "They've got Oliver, Clark – they've got him!"

"Hey, it's okay – everything is going to be okay," said Clark quietly, wrapping his arms around her and hugging her tightly. "We'll find him, I promise - we'll find them all."

* * *

Ollie in peril, Chloe desperate - Clark set to save the day? You know it's not going to be that simple, don't you? That's the great thing about fanfic - you don't have to squeeze a story into 42 minutes (make that 39, if you take out the obligatory barn scene). Hope you enjoyed this one - good to see Chloe and Clark back, but they are not going to be enough to stop some very bad things happening in the next few chapters. Real shocks ahead, I promise!

What about Fortune? Could Chlolliers have wished for a better ending? Just wonderful - I only hope now that Ollie's arc will end on an equally happy note. I have to say part of me felt very sad watching the ep - for the first time there was a real sense that the show is indeed coming to an end, and as the pair of them walked away at the end I couldn't help but think we've only got three Ollie episodes left. Sad - so, so sad.

Please do leave a review if you can - I live for your feedback! Hope to get another chapter up next week, but I might not - real life getting in the way again.


	15. Chapter 15: Unbreakable

**Chapter Fifteen: Unbreakable**

_**WARNING: Serious Ollie torture ahead!**_

Taking his knife, Slade reached forward and cut away the saran wrap from Oliver's face. A sheen of perspiration glistened on the young hero's cheeks and forehead, and his hair was drenched with sweat; rendered mute by the duck tape that was still stuck firmly over his mouth, his eyes blazed with fury as he stared defiantly at his captor.

"Did you like that, pretty boy? Did you? Did you like that?" Each question was accompanied by a slap to Oliver's face, Slade taunting him, goading him to respond. Oliver grunted angrily into his gag, turning his head away and pulling hard at the leather straps which held him in place.

"What was that? I can't hear you, pretty boy!" sneered Slade, slapping Oliver for a fourth time. He grabbed him by his hair and pulled his head forward, so that he had no choice but to look him straight in the eye. "Do you want to say something, Mr Tough Guy Hero? Do you? Here, let me help you."

Slade brandished the knife in front of Oliver's face, before expertly cutting through the strips of tape which had been used to gag him. He then took hold of the tape and ripped it away in one swift movement.

"You bastard! I'll kill you for this – I swear, I'll kill you!" gasped Oliver breathlessly, his voice parched and cracked.

Slade laughed, amused by his captive's display of anger. "Easy there, hero boy! Where's that famous Green Arrow cool I've read so much about? Or is that just something else where the man doesn't match up to the myth?"

"You murdered him! You had me - you didn't need to kill him!" replied Oliver, all his pent-up rage and frustration at last finding an outlet. As he spoke he strained at his bonds with every ounce of force he could muster, as if he wanted to leap on Slade and tear him limb from limb. It was pointless, of course. Slade was far too careful to have left anything to chance, and the straps held firm.

"Caruso? Brave guy," said Slade casually, grinning malevolently at Oliver. "But he had to die – just like your friends, he was a way for us to get to you."

Inwardly Oliver shuddered at the mention of his team. "Where are they? What have you done to them?" he asked, unable to hide the fear in his voice.

"Worried about your boys, Queen? Still trying to be the leader? If I were you I'd be more worried about myself right now – because what I've got planned for you is going to make what I did to Curry and the kid look like a walk in the park."

"I asked you a question, damnit!" demanded Oliver angrily. "What have you done to them, you sick son of a bitch!"

"You watch that mouth of yours, Queen!" hissed Slade, reaching forward and seizing Oliver by the chin. His huge hand seemed to envelope the entire bottom half of Oliver's face, holding him in a vice-like grip; enjoying the mixture of defiance and rage he could see in the other man's eyes, he squeezed hard on his cheeks, forcing Oliver's lips into a grotesque mockery of a kiss.

"I'm in charge here, boy – don't you forget it!" he continued, pressing ever harder. He could feel the young hero's jaw under his thumb and forefinger, but still he continued to exert ever greater pressure. Tears began to well up in Oliver's eyes; the pain was excruciating, the force on his teeth and bones growing stronger and stronger until he thought they would snap. And all the time the two men stared at each other, the one demanding the complete submission of the other...

At last Slade released his grip. Oliver gasped, his head falling forwards in relief.

"Please," he said quietly, slowly looking up into the face of his tormentor. "Please, do what you what you want with me, but don't hurt them – please."

"It's out of my hands, Queen," replied Slade callously. "My employer has them now. They could be alive, they could be dead – you'll find out, soon enough."

Oliver felt sick. As if Dean's death had not been enough, he now had to face the very real possibility that one or more of the guys might also have been killed. He felt as if he were locked in some terrifying nightmare, one which seemed to move from one horror to the next with bewildering speed.

"Why are you doing this? Who's paying you?"

Slade laughed. "You know that's just what your friend fish boy said to me, right before I fried his ass with 20 000 volts. Right over there I tortured him – hour after hour, until he begged me for mercy. Screamed like a bitch, he did - screamed and screamed, until he couldn't scream no more. I think he thought you were going to fly in and save him – but you were too busy topping up your tan with that whore of yours, weren't you, Mr Hot-Shot Hero?"

Inside Oliver, something snapped. Dean's death, his fears for the guys, his own sense of helplessness – suddenly he could control himself no longer. Wildly, he started pulling at his bonds, twisting this way and that in a desperate attempt to get free. He was like a trapped animal, thrashing against the leather belts and cuffs which held him securely against the frame. AC, Bart, Victor – he had to save them, save them before it was too late. He couldn't let them die – not after Dean...

Again Slade laughed, the sound echoing around the confined space of the windowless cellar. He watched Oliver for a moment, savouring the other man's increasingly frantic efforts to free himself. Then, without saying a word, he reached across to a lever attached to the frame. He pulled it, and suddenly the frame lurched backwards, pivoting on its axis. Oliver fell with it, and for a split second he thought the back of his skull was going to smash onto the floor behind him. Instead the frame came to a juddering halt, leaving Oliver's head just inches from the ground. The blood rushing to his brain, for a moment he struggled to focus. When at last he was able to open his eyes, he found himself looking up at his feet, strapped to the frame high above him. He was still bound tightly to the metal structure, but now he rested at a forty-five degree angle to the ground. Once again a knot of fear tightened in his gut; what new torture did his captor have in store now?

"I enjoyed hurting Curry, but you know something, Queen? I think I'm gonna enjoy breaking you a whole lot more," said Slade, reaching across to a table and picking up a large piece of oil stained rag. "Of course I can't mark you, but that don't matter – we can still have a whole lot of fun together."

Oliver did not reply. There was silence for a moment, broken only by the sound of Oliver's labored breathing.

"Have you ever been waterboarded, pretty boy?"

Oliver's stomach churned. So that was what the frame was for – to hold him down as he was forced to endure one of the most notorious torments of modern times.

"They say it's not torture, but you and I know different, don't we?" said Slade, leaning down so that his face was just a few inches from Oliver's. "Most men can't take it for more than a few seconds. How long will the Green Arrow last, I wonder?"

Slade's eyes flashed in anticipation of what was to come. Oliver could sense the other man's excitement, and knew that the pain he was about to suffer would dwarf anything he had endured so far. But he was damned if he was going to betray any sign of weakness, give the monster who now leered over him the satisfaction of seeing him crack.

"Bring it on," he hissed quietly. "Bring it on, you sick piece of shit!"

Slade smiled, his face a picture of malevolence. Without saying another word, he threw the oily rag over Oliver's face. The young hero's body tensed, ready for the assault that now could only be seconds away. Slade, however, did not rush. Taking his time, he picked up the length of hose which lay on the floor nearby, before reaching across and turning on the tap. Water began to flow steadily out of the end of the tube, splashing onto the hard concrete floor.

_This is it,_ thought of Oliver. _Hang in there, Oliver – you can do this! _

And then it began. Oliver felt the water pouring onto his face, immediately saturating the cloth. He started to panic, pulling desperately at the straps and twisting his body so as to escape the water. It was no use, and very quickly he felt his lungs begin to tighten. He wanted to gag, but could not; instead he felt his throat constrict, responding to the simulated drowning. So it continued, for what seemed like an eternity; a physical and mental hell, as he slowly asphyxiated.

Slade let the water run onto Oliver's face for about thirty seconds – the longest seconds of the young hero's life. Eventually he pulled the hose away, before removing the rag from Oliver's coughing, choking face.

"Enjoy that, tough guy?" he laughed, staring down at Oliver. Gasping for air, Oliver did not reply, but simply stared back, wide-eyed and terrified.

"So are you ready to scream for me, Green Arrow? Because you will scream for mercy sooner or later, you know that."

"Screw you," choked Oliver. "SCREW YOU!"

"Still playing the hero? That's fine by me, pretty boy – I can wait. But you will break – that's a promise. I don't care how long it takes – minutes, hours – I've got all the time in the world. But I will break you, Oliver Queen – you will scream for me!"

With that Slade threw the rag over Oliver's face once more. Oliver just had time to take a gulp of air, before once more he was plunged back into his suffocating nightmare.

Slade smiled. He glanced at his watch – nine hours before Lex's men turned up to collect the archer.

_That should be long enough, _he thought to himself.

* * *

Cohen stepped out of the bright sunlight and into the dingy blackness which lay beyond the open door. It was late morning, and the hot summer sun had already pushed the temperature into the mid-eighties. Inside the building, however, it felt cool, the musty dampness of the air contrasting with the dry heat of outside. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Looking around, it was obvious that no one had lived here for a long time; the windows were boarded up, and the room in which she stood was bare, save for a few bottles lying discarded in a far corner. Slade had chosen his location well. A derelict building in a run-down part of the city – no one would disturb him here, as he set about his grisly business.

"Slade, are you here?" she shouted, as three large men joined her in the room. They were here to help her collect their prisoner – it was time for the next phase of Lex's plan to begin.

There was no answer.

"Slade, where are you? It's time," she called again, a hint of impatience in her voice. Slade had had his time with Queen – now it was her turn.

The sound of heavy boots could be heard, climbing a set of wooden stairs. The pace was unhurried, as if to emphasise the fact that here Slade was the master, and he rushed for no one – certainly not one of Luthor's lieutenants.

Eventually a door to the right swung open, creaking loudly on its unoiled hinges. Slade stepped into the room, turning to look at his visitors.

"Is he ready?" asked Cohen eagerly. "You know we're on a tight schedule – we've got to be at the drop-off point at midday prompt."

"He's ready," replied Slade, stepping to one side. "Be my guest."

Leading the way, Cohen made her way to the door, followed by her men. She found herself at the top of a steep flight of wooden steps, illuminated by a solitary bulb which hung from the ceiling about half way down. Slade had obviously taken no chances – he'd set up his little chamber of horrors down in the basement, well out of the way of prying eyes and ears. Carefully she began to descend, her heels sounding crisply against the wooden steps.

At the foot of the staircase she was confronted by a brick wall. She turned sharply to her left, stepping through a door and into a dimly lit room. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the large metal frame which stood in the middle. For a second she could not quite make out what she was seeing, until she realised that she was looking at it from behind. Through the steel struts she could make out the shape of a man pinioned upside down onto the frame, his legs stretching up into the air. The straps that held him in place were hidden, making it a bizarre sight. It was almost as if he was hanging in mid air, but Cohen knew that this was no trick; this was where Slade had set about his sadistic work.

She smiled. Her eyes adjusting to the gloom, she could make out the green and black of Oliver's costume through the bars.

_Not such a tough guy now, are you, Oliver Queen?_

She walked slowly forwards, coming to a halt in front of the frame. Oliver hung there, lifeless. He appeared unmarked, just as Lex had ordered; the only outward sign that he had been subject to any form of torture was the large pool of water around the base of the frame. The young hero's eyes were shut, as if he were sleeping. Cohen stood silently for a moment, staring. Even now, Oliver's beauty had the power to take her breath away. Every muscle of his long, lean frame appeared perfectly toned, and the drops of water that covered his face seemed to accentuate his unblemished complexion. The photos she'd seen in countless society magazines had not done him justice; here, now, he appeared like a Greek god made flesh.

_A god brought low,_ she thought to herself. _Are you Adonis or_ _Prometheus, Mr Queen?_

Unable to stop herself, she reached forward. Slowly, she ran her hand down the inside of one Oliver's legs. The leather felt seductively smooth, perfectly encasing the taut muscles that lay beneath. As she reached his groin she hesitated, tempted to allow her hand to wander still further...

A groan.

Cohen quickly withdrew her hand, aware that her prisoner was stirring. She leaned down, eager to look into his eyes as he woke.

"Wake up, Green Arrow," she said quietly, gently slapping him on the side of the face.

Oliver groaned again. His head turned to the side, a frown replacing the look of calm of moments earlier.

"Wake up, Mr Queen."

Oliver's eyes opened. He looked at Cohen, for a split second not understanding. Then he remembered, the memories flooding back.

"Has Slade been looking after you, Mr Queen? We told him not to leave any marks on that handsome face of yours."

Oliver did not reply.

"Aww, nothing to say? I'm disappointed, Oliver – I've been so looking forward to our little reunion."

"Yeah? Can't say I feel the same," whispered Oliver, his voice weak but defiant.

Cohen smiled. "Slade's time is up, Mr Queen – you're ours now."

She stood, not allowing Oliver a chance to respond. "Get him ready – we're already running behind schedule," she ordered, looking across at her men who had been waiting by the doorway. They moved forwards, and within seconds began the task of releasing Oliver from the straps which had held him in place for what had seemed like an eternity.

Oliver was too weak to resist as the men set about their work, roughly manhandling him as they swapped one set of bonds for another. In fact, he was barely aware of what they were doing. Instead, his mind was filled with one thought, one truth so powerful it carried all before it. He clung to this thought, like a drowning man clinging to a lifebelt. Amidst all the terror, all the torment, all the despair, this thought sustained him, and gave him the strength to carry on, whatever the future might hold.

_He had not broken._

He'd lost count of how many times he'd been water boarded. After the first half dozen they'd all blended into one – one continuous nightmare of choking, suffocating agony. He must have passed out five or six times. On each occasion Slade had paused, allowing him time to recover before starting all over again. It had been brutal, relentless – but through it all, he had not broken. Not once had he cried out for mercy, begged for a moment's respite. His refusal to submit had infuriated Slade, of course; in between each session he'd hurled abuse at Oliver, his frustration turning to anger as the young hero failed to play his part in his sick little game. He'd wanted to hit Oliver, wanted to beat him to a pulp, but the instructions he'd been given by his unseen paymaster had held him back. So all he could do was curse and shout as all his attempts to elicit that scream he so desperately wanted had failed. If anything, Oliver had grown mentally stronger with every assault. His body might have been crying out for relief, but in his mind he had blocked out the pain. Instead he had focused on the guys, the men he had fashioned into a team. He had determined to stay strong for them; his resistance was their resistance. Above all, he had focused on Chloe. He had thought of their love for each other, the simple, uncomplicated joy that she had brought into his life. That love had sustained him through those long dark hours, and given him the strength to endure.

He had been tested, and he had not been found wanting.

He had not broken.

It did not take long for Cohen's men to complete their work, and Oliver soon found himself standing before his captor, his hands bound firmly behind his back. He swayed a little, his body struggling to adjust to being upright once more; otherwise he stood upright, his eyes bright and defiant.

"Bring him," ordered Cohen. The men grabbed Oliver by the arms, and led him towards the stairs. As Cohen watched she could not help but wonder at the young man's resilience; he had withstood all that Slade had thrown at him, and yet still he appeared unbroken, every inch a hero.

She smiled.

_Just you wait, pretty boy,_ she thought to herself. _What you've suffered so far is nothing compared to what's coming next._

As Oliver reached the top of the stairs he found his path blocked by Slade. The two men stared at each other for a few seconds, each recalling the titanic struggle of wills of the previous hours. Oliver was the prisoner, but both knew that it was he who now stood there as the victor. Slade had tried to make him crack, but he had failed – for the first time, Deathstroke had met his match.

"Don't think this is over, Queen," hissed Slade, scowling at Oliver. "I haven't finished with you – not by a long shot. And next time – next time there'll be no limits to what I can do, understand?"

"Yeah? I can't wait," replied Oliver, smiling. It was a reaction designed to rile his torturer, and it worked; Slade's response was a crippling blow to Oliver's gut.

"Enough! Get him to the car," ordered Cohen. Reluctantly, Slade stepped aside, allowing the men to drag Oliver away.

"So he didn't crack – surprising," said Cohen dryly, watching as her men disappeared out of the door with their captive. She chose her words carefully, enjoying the opportunity to remind Slade of his failure to break his prisoner. Slade did not reply, but turned away, clearly frustrated by what had happened.

"Still, I'm sure you'll get another chance to work on Mr Queen," she continued, ignoring Slade's silence. "Mind you, next time will be different – after what Lex has planned for our hero, there probably won't be much left of Oliver Queen to torture anyway, will there?"

* * *

Well, I warned you, didn't I? Some serious Ollie whumpage in this chapter, but our guy didn't break - damn right he's a hero!

Hope you enjoyed this one. I'm SO sorry it has taken so long to post - life is insanely busy at the moment, and it is very hard to find the time to write. The next chapter might go up next week, or it might be the week after - it is going to be a chapter of HUGE importance, and I want to get it right! Not going to say any more, but let's just say Ollie is heading from one hell to another that is a whole lot worse...

Thanks so much for reading, and for reviewing. I'm suffering Ollie withdrawal symptoms at the moment - I don't know how I will feel when Smallville finally ends! Please do leave a review if you can - even a short one makes me so, so happy, and really inspires me to keep on writing!


	16. Chapter 16: No Way Back

**Chapter Sixteen: No Way Back**

"Chloe, please – you need to rest."

Clark looked down at his friend, who sat on the edge of the bed. He wanted to appear reassuring, but it was hard; having heard about the events of the last few days it was difficult to avoid the conclusion that something terrible was unfolding, something which might claim the lives of Oliver and all his friends. He and Chloe had returned to Oliver's penthouse a couple of hours earlier, and since then she had told him all that had happened. The disappearance of the guys, the Green Arrow framed for a series of robberies, Dean's kidnapping and murder – it was a sequence of disasters which had taken place with almost breathtaking speed. And now Oliver too was missing – kidnapped, unable to defend his alter ego against a charge of murder. It was hard to know what to think, but one thing seemed very clear: this was no random set of events, but part of a coordinated attack on the League, carried out with devastating efficiency. But who was behind it? That was impossible to discern, and yet without that knowledge Clark knew that he was powerless to help his friends.

"You'll wake me if you have any news? Promise me – promise me you'll wake me."

Chloe's voice was fragile, needy. Clark had never seen her like this before, apparently driven almost to the verge of physical and mental collapse. It had taken a little over an hour to get her to this point, sitting quietly on the edge of the bed. For a long time she had resisted his pleas to rest, pacing up and down as she recounted what had happened and gradually working herself up into a frenzy of anxiety and uncertainty. Then the tears had come, flowing readily down her face. She had sobbed like a child, the strain of the previous hours at last finding its release. He had held her, tried to comfort her, but it was not enough; inconsolable, she had wept freely for what had seemed like an eternity. At last the tears had stopped, and, sapped of all emotional strength, she had at last allowed him to guide her to the bedroom. And now here she was - small, frightened, her world collapsing around her. The tears still stained her cheeks, and the state of her hair and clothes made it clear she hadn't slept for over twenty-four hours. She was running on empty, exhausted in mind and body. She loved Oliver, he knew that, but as he looked down at the slight, terrified figure who had been his friend for so many years he could see more clearly than ever before what he meant to her. He dared not think what would happen if Oliver didn't survive this – Chloe was strong, but this might be a tragedy from which there would be no way back.

"Hey, I promise, okay?" he said quietly, reaching out and touching the side of her face in a gesture of reassurance. "Now you need to rest – you'll be no good to anyone if you don't get some sleep."

He leaned down, taking hold of her legs and gently swinging her onto the bed. She did not resist; whilst her mind wanted to stay awake, tiredness meant that she hadn't the strength to do much else.

"It's going to be okay," said Clark, staring down at her. "We're going to find Oliver – we're going to find all of them – I promise."

Gently, he kissed her on the forehead, forcing a half smile onto his lips. She returned his smile, but both knew the truth. Oliver was in grave danger – and, at that moment, there was nothing they could do about it.

After Clark had left Chloe lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling. She knew that Clark was right, that she needed to rest, but something within her would not allow her to close her eyes. To sleep, even for a few minutes, felt like a betrayal; how could she rest when Oliver was somewhere out there, at the mercy of men who had already killed once, and who seemed hell bent on his destruction? She consoled herself with the thought that now she did not have to face this nightmare alone. Clark's presence – so calm, so strong – acted like balm to her fearful soul. Like so many times before, he was her rock at a moment of crisis, a friend she could lean on without reservation. But even Clark had no answers; he, like her, could only wait – and pray.

She turned onto her side. The drapes were drawn back, and she could see the rooftops of the city glinting in the warm summer sun. It was a view she'd seen many times before. Her mind slipped back to a couple of weeks earlier, when she had lain in that exact same spot, staring out at the city with a sheet wrapped around her. She had made love to Oliver just moments earlier, and as she'd looked out across the skyline she could recall vividly his hand reaching up and caressing her face, his touch so tender and gentle.

Now the space which he had occupied was empty. Emotion once more welling up inside her, she reached out, her hand feeling for the indentation left by his body in the bedclothes.

"Come back to me, Ollie," she whispered, a tear running down her cheek. "Please God, come back to me safe."

Across the city another figure stood at his window, staring out at the beautiful summer's day. He felt no fear; unlike Chloe, he knew exactly what the future had in store for Oliver. All the months of planning had come together, and now here he was, on the verge of final victory. He had played this moment out in his mind countless times before, but this time it was real – this time it was finally happening. Considering how much he had dreamt of this moment, he was surprised at how calm he felt – supremely certain of what was about to unfold, he felt positively serene.

Lex looked at his watch.

Five to twelve.

_Five minutes, _he thought to himself. _Five minutes, and then nothing will ever be the same again._

_

* * *

_

Michelle Ellis was a woman in a hurry. Not yet twenty-five, she had already earned plaudits for her work on the Daily Planet. Gaining a job as a journalist at just twenty-two, she'd quickly graduated from writing anonymous stories buried in the middle pages of the paper to being a major feature writer. Within a year of starting work her name was almost as prominent as the headlines to her stories, and she was the toast of the Planet newsroom, touted as the next Lois Lane, no less. She'd loved the attention, of course, but it had never been enough. She had fixed her sights much higher than the Planet, and when an opportunity had arisen at one of the local TV networks she'd jumped at the chance. It wasn't that she hadn't enjoyed her time at the Planet, it was just that it wouldn't give her what she really craved – a chance of winning a place on prime time national TV. That was the dream, and when an opportunity to get out there in front of a camera had come up she'd grabbed for it with both hands.

That had been six months ago. Since then things hadn't quite worked out as she'd expected. At the Planet she had revelled in being the next big thing, but at the network it was quickly made very clear that she was at the bottom of the food chain. For weeks she'd had to watch as the best stories went to other reporters, left with little more than the scraps from the feast. Even when she had filed a piece, nine times out of ten it hadn't made the cut, driven out by bigger, more glamorous stories. It had been a sobering, almost dispiriting experience, and one which had shaken her previously rock-solid confidence in her own destiny.

And then the Green Arrow story had been thrown her way. Immediately she'd sensed that this was the opportunity she'd been waiting for – a big news story, and one with the potential to go national. Her coverage of the news conference at which Hoskins had made his first allegations against the Archer had propelled her to the number one position in the news that day, and the murder of Caruso had only fuelled the feeding frenzy that was surrounding the story. At last she was where she wanted to be – at the heart of the action. All she needed now was the big break – the scoop that would set her apart from the army of reporters who were now covering the unfolding drama of the hero vigilante gone bad.

When she'd received the tip-off this morning she'd thought her prayers had been answered. An anonymous phone call, telling her to be at the corner of McPherson Avenue and thirty-Eighth Street at midday. All very mysterious, and quite possibly a hoax; despite that, she had been hooked. The caller had promised that if she came she'd learn "the truth" about the Green Arrow, so how could she resist? But now, as she stood at the appointed place, she was beginning to have her doubts. This was one of the busiest shopping areas of the city, packed with people indulging their need for some serious retail therapy. It was now a quarter past twelve, and still nothing had happened – all she could see were armies of pedestrians, battling to make their way along a packed sidewalk with countless oversized bags clasped in their hands.

_A wild goose chase,_ she thought to herself. _Pity – I really thought this was it._

She was about to turn to her cameraman and tell him to take the rest of the day off when a black van screeched around the corner and sped down the street towards them. Car horns blared as other vehicles swerved to avoid it, but the driver of the van seemed oblivious; behind tinted glass he continued to speed towards Michelle.

Michelle's instincts immediately kicked in, and she sensed that this was no ordinary guy out for a speed thrill.

"Get filming!" she ordered, shooting a glance across at her colleague. He did as he was told, just in time to catch the arrival of the van just a few feet in front of them.

For a split second it was as if time stood still. Michelle stared at the blacked out windows of the van. Her heart pumped furiously in her chest; she had no idea what was about to happen, but something inside her told her that this was it – this was the break that she had been waiting for. Then, without warning, the back doors of the van were flung open. Something large was thrown out, before the doors were slammed shut once more. There was a screech of wheels spinning, and the van sped away.

Michelle, however, did not see it leave. Instead she stood rooted to the spot, her eyes fixed on the bundle that had been so dramatically dumped on the ground just a few feet from where she stood.

It was a man – a man dressed in a costume that every man, woman and child in the city could recognise.

_The Green Arrow!_

It had all happened so quickly, it didn't quite seem real. But her eyes were not deceiving her – it really was the Archer, clad head to toe in his trademark leathers. All around her, people had stopped to stare –they, like her, were shocked by the sight that met their eyes. However, it was Michelle who recovered first. She saw the ropes that were tied tightly around the vigilante's ankles, thighs, and torso, the twine that bound his arms behind his back, and immediately she understood. The Green Arrow had been captured, by person or persons unknown, and they had chosen her to unmask him – here, now, in the center of Metropolis and with a camera present to preserve the moment forever.

This was it – the scoop of a lifetime, the scoop she'd always dreamt about.

She did not hesitate.

"Get this – get this, or so help me I swear I'll kill you," she said to her cameraman, before stepping forwards towards the helpless hero. He followed, as did many of the crowd which had now gathered – all sensed what was to come.

The Green Arrow was struggling against his bonds, wriggling impotently on the ground in a pathetic attempt to escape the inevitable. Michelle leaned down, her pulse racing as she turned him onto his back. She found herself staring not into the vigilante's famous glasses, but into a pair of fearful, hunted eyes, eyes which darted from left to right, as if searching for some means of escape...

A strip of silver tape was plastered over his lips, but Michelle could not tear her gaze away from those eyes, eyes which now stared at her, wide and pleading...

She knew those eyes. She knew them from all those pointless charity balls she'd had to cover, the endless parade of beautiful people touting their benevolence to whoever was watching...

_It couldn't be... No, surely..._

Her hand shaking, she reached up and took hold of the man's hood. She hesitated for a split second, before pulling it back.

"Oh my God..." she whispered, stunned to have her instincts confirmed.

It was a face she'd seen a hundred times before. Not once, however, had she ever dreamed she would see him like this.

It was the face of Oliver Queen.

* * *

Well, I promised you a shocking twist! Framed, captured, tortured, exposed - surely it can't get any worse for Ollie? Of course it can! Lex's plan has some way to go yet, I promise - and our hero's suffering has only just begun!

Thanks so much to all those of you who reviewed my last chapter - the response was AMAZING! Please do leave a review if you can - they really do mean the world to me!


	17. Chapter 17: Facing the Public

**Chapter Seventeen: Facing the Public**

Lex guided the cursor towards the play button on his computer screen, eager to see again the short sequence of images that was the climax of months of careful planning. How many times had he watched it now? A dozen times? Twenty? He'd lost count. But the footage, all thirty or so seconds of it, was mesmerising. Sometimes out of focus, sometimes lurching inexplicably to the right or left, this piece of film changed everything. The world now knew the truth about the Green Arrow – and for Oliver, there was no way back.

The film began to play. By now he knew every shot, of course – every image committed to memory, to be played over and over again in his head. He could not imagine he would ever tire of seeing these images, the utter humiliation of the man who had been his rival ever since their school days together at Excelsior. Time and again Oliver had beaten him, but not now – now it was he, Lex Luthor, who would enjoy the final victory. Lex watched, transfixed, as the familiar sequence of images played out on the screen. The van speeding down the street, the screech of brakes, a flash of green as the leather-clad vigilante was dumped, trussed up and gagged, on the sidewalk, the close-up images of the hooded man as the camera moved in...

And then the shot that made it all worthwhile – the shot that he had dreamed about all those long days he had spent locked up in Oliver's prison.

Lex was well practised in gauging the moment, and with split second accuracy he paused the clip. There, filling the screen, was Oliver's face. Tape covered his mouth, but there could be no mistaking his identity – no one viewing this could be in any doubt that Oliver was the Archer. Lex had stared at this image countless times, but still it had the capacity to thrill. It was the eyes that did it – those wide, terrified eyes, staring out at a world that could now see the truth.

This was the image that would go around the world over the next twenty-four hours, the image that would be reproduced hundreds of times in the days and weeks ahead. Not an image of a handsome billionaire, still less the image of a heroic vigilante – instead the world would see a frightened little boy, confused and helpless and at the mercy of events he did not understand, still less have the ability to control.

It was an ignominious end for a man who just days earlier had seemed to have the world at his feet. Stripped of his secret identity, bound and gagged, and dumped like trash in a city which had once idolised him, but now loathed him – Oliver's humiliation was complete.

_Are you scared, Oliver? Are you afraid? You should be – because this is only the start of what I've got planned for you, my friend._

There was a knock at the door. Lex looked up, to find Cohen entering the room.

"Well?" he asked expectantly. "Is our poster boy the internet sensation we'd hoped he'd be?"

Cohen grinned. "The clip has already had fifteen thousand hits on YouTube, and it's currently getting sixteen hits a second. I think we can safely say that Mr Queen is set to be the next big thing on the web, sir."

Fifteen thousand hits – and it had only been posted online for around two hours. It was an incredible figure, and Lex knew that it would only grow exponentially in the coming days. He knew that the story of the fall from grace of the handsome billionaire with the secret double life would prove irresistible to people right around the globe. In the celebrity culture of today, the scandal of the fall of Oliver Queen would make headlines, even in the remotest corner of the planet; schadenfreude was an ugly emotion, but one which few could resist.

"And when are they bringing him out?" continued Lex, his mind turning to what was to happen next.

"That's why I' m here. Hoskins just called – it's going to happen any minute now."

Lex smiled - Hoskins had once again proved his worth. After the drama of Oliver's appearance in the heart of the city, he'd been taken into custody. However, he'd not immediately been taken to the city's main police station, but instead had been held for three hours at a small station house just yards from where he'd been dumped. Hoskins had used his influence to delay the transfer, so that the media had time to gather in force. Lex wanted what was about to happen to be captured on film, fresh footage to feed the frenzy of interest that was already beginning to build.

"And everything is in place?"

"Yes sir. Our people are strategically placed in the crowd - I think you'll get the images you want."

"Good – then I think it's time to see how Oliver's enjoying life as public enemy number one, don't you?"

Lex reached for the remote and swung his chair round in the direction of the television that was mounted on the wall. As the screen came to life he leaned forward, eager not to miss a second of what was to come.

He was going to enjoy this – he was going to enjoy this very much.

* * *

"Chloe, please – stop punishing yourself."

Clark sat beside his friend, who stared intently at the TV screen in front of her. The last couple of hours had been amongst the worst of his life, but he knew that what he was feeling was nothing compared to the torment that Chloe was going through. He wanted to get her away from the television, to give her some respite from the horror that was unfolding, but she was having none of it. Instead she continued to stare straight ahead, watching as that same piece of terrible footage was played over and over again. How many times had the network played it? He'd lost count, but it was as if they were now co-conspirators in this plot to destroy Oliver. The reporters and pundits were revelling in the story, pouring over every last detail like vultures circling a dying animal. It was inevitable, he realised that – but it didn't make it any easier to bear. And why Chloe insisted on subjecting herself to all this – the character assassination, that picture of Oliver looking so frightened, so lost – well, it was all just too much. He felt at a loss, unable to find the words to offer her any form of comfort, any ounce of solace. All he could do was sit with her, and hope that at the end of all this darkness something would happen to make sense of it all.

"_And I'm hearing that we can now go live over to our reporter at the scene, Michelle Ellis,"_ said the presenter. _"Michelle, can you tell us what's going on down there? What are the police telling you about what's likely to happen next?"_

"_Bob, we think something is about to happen. An armoured truck has just pulled up, and we think that's been brought here to transport Oliver Queen to a more secure location for questioning. As you can see, quite a crowd has gathered here, hoping to catch a glimpse of the prisoner – not just the media, but also a lot of local people, eager to be a part of this sensational story. The mood is quite ugly, I have to tell you – many people I've spoken to have talked about Dean Caruso, and are keen to see the man who is alleged to have shot him down in cold blood. It seems..."_

The reporter stopped talking, turning to look over at something just out of camera range.

"_Bob, we think this is it," _she continued, an edge of excitement in her voice. _"The doors have opened, and three or four armed officers have stepped outside, and are beginning to prepare a path towards the truck. It looks as if they are about to bring him out... Yes, yes, I think we can see him now..."_

The camera swung to the left, focusing in on the open door to the police station. Clark felt Chloe's hand reach out; he took hold of it, clasping it tightly to give her the courage to face what was to come...

And then there he was, framed in the doorway – Oliver Queen, the Green Arrow. The bright afternoon sunlight caught the greens of his leathers, making his costume appear even more out of place in amongst the uniforms of the police officers who surrounded him. The Green Arrow was a figure of the night, hunting his prey under the cloak of darkness; to see him exposed to the harsh glare of the light of day was nothing short of shocking. He stood tall, towering over the men who flanked him; staring straight ahead, he deliberately avoided catching the eye of any of the hundreds of onlookers who now crowded around. There was no fear in those eyes now - just a quiet dignity, an unshakeable determination to stay strong, whatever the future might hold.

But he was a prisoner – the handcuffs around his wrists were testament to that. Chloe squeezed Clark's hand still tighter – it was an image to break her heart.

For a split second nobody moved – it was as if the sight of Oliver clad in the leathers of his alter ego was almost too much to take in. Then the battery of camera flashes opened up, snapping away to capture this moment forever. How often had Oliver faced those cameras before, at all those endless charity events? Now, of course, he stood before them not as the billionaire playboy, but as a suspected killer – and it was these photos, not the others, which would now be forever associated with his name.

One of the officers took Oliver by the arm, guiding him forwards. Oliver complied, and began making his way towards the truck. It was at that moment the booing started. Just a few voices at first, emanating from the anonymous heart of the crowd, but soon there were more – angry voices, jeering and shouting accusations and threats. The people began to surge forwards, taking the police by surprise. Soon they surrounded Oliver, who stood unflinching as the officers guarding him struggled to maintain order and get him to the truck safely. Cameras continued to flash, capturing the rage of the crowd which encircled the fallen hero. Pushed to left and right, Oliver continued to stare straight ahead – like a martyr destined for execution, he seemed serenely calm even as the mood of the mob became angrier and angrier.

And then it happened. Somehow a woman broke through the protective cordon which surrounded Oliver. She stood in front of him for a split second, barring his way before screaming "murderer!" Oliver did not flinch, but then she did something he was not prepared for:

She spat in his face.

At last Oliver's veneer of self-control slipped, just for a split second. He appeared shocked and bewildered once more, taken aback by the hatred of this woman he didn't even know. Chloe gasped, almost unable to bear what she was seeing. How could these people be like this? Why couldn't they see what was going on? He was their hero, the man who had saved their city – how could they turn on him in this way? It was too much – it was just too much...

It was all over in an instant – the woman was pushed away, and Oliver regained his composure. But it was enough – that was the moment that would be flashed around the world in the hours to come.

After a few seconds more the embattled police managed to get Oliver to the truck. He was bundled inside, before the doors were slammed shut. As the vehicle began to pull away the crowd continued to bay for blood, its rage seemingly insatiable.

Clark had seen enough. He reached for the remote, bringing to an end the stream of nightmarish images which they had endured for too long.

He looked at Chloe. She appeared strangely calm, despite all that she had seen.

"Chloe...Chloe, are you okay?" he asked quietly.

Chloe turned towards him.

"I need to be with him, Clark," she said. "I need to be with him now."

* * *

Poor Ollie - how much more can he stand? Lex has a lot more planned, I'm afraid - but you wouldn't want it any other way, would you?

Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter - real life just keeps getting in the way of what matters! I hope to be able to post another chapter next week - please be patient!

Thanks so much to all you wonderful reviewers - it is so good to get feedback! Please do leave a review if you can - they mean so, so much to me!


	18. Chapter 18: Staying Strong

**Chapter Eighteen: Staying Strong**

Clark brought the car to a halt about thirty or so yards short of their destination, the city's main police station. Ahead of him the mass of reporters that crowded around the main entrance to the building could clearly be seen. They, like Clark, knew that this was where Oliver was being held, and already they were besieging the building, desperate to be the first with the latest twist in what was fast turning into the story of the year. Looking closely, he could make out a number of foreign news crews amongst the throng; Oliver's fall from grace had attracted worldwide attention.

He felt empty inside, powerless to alter the course of events which was so rapidly running out of control. Bart, AC and Victor were all missing, and now Oliver was facing ruin, his identity exposed and framed for a crime he did not commit. It was too fantastic for words, but it was the truth – a truth he was no nearer to understanding. Who was behind all this? Someone powerful, that much was clear – and someone intelligent, resourceful. To bring down the Justice League so comprehensively took cunning, but there was more to it than that. Whoever was orchestrating this didn't just want to destroy the League – they wanted to humiliate them. Those images of Oliver flashed into his mind – trussed up and gagged on the sidewalk, and later, handcuffed as he faced an angry mob. Heartbreaking images, but also images carefully planned to capture the attention of a world hungry for the next YouTube sensation, the next celebrity implosion. Clark knew instinctively that nothing that was taking place was taking place by chance; everything had been prepared, down to the finest detail. There was malice in this conspiracy, a vindictiveness that spoke of true evil.

He turned to look at Chloe, who sat silently beside him. She had said nothing since they'd left the apartment. He had not tried to speak to her; he knew that at a time like this words were pointless. All he could do was to be there for her, just like she'd always been there for him; two friends, united once more in adversity.

"Are you ready for this?" he asked quietly.

She turned to look at him.

"I'm ready."

The two of them got out of the car, before beginning to walk purposefully towards the police station. They were tense, knowing full well that they could not reach the relative sanctuary of the building without running the gauntlet of the waiting pack of journalists. On his own Clark would have aroused barely a second glance, but Chloe was different; she was the fiancé of Oliver Queen, the girl from Smallville whose fairytale romance with the city's most eligible bachelor had entranced the readers of the society pages for months. Everyone knew who she was, but this time she was front page news.

"It's her! It's Chloe Sullivan!"

They had been spotted. As one, fifty or sixty heads turned to look; Chloe felt herself wither under the intensity of their gaze. They began running towards her, shouting questions. She tried to steel herself, but in seconds they were upon them, surrounding them like a pack of wolves.

"Did you know Oliver was the Green Arrow?"

"Did he tell you why he killed Detective Caruso?"

"Why did he rob those banks?"

"How does it feel to be engaged to a killer?"

"Do you expect to be questioned?"

"Will you stand by him if he's found guilty?"

Questions, questions, questions – the reporters were unrelenting, jostling for position as they thrust their microphones in her face. She said nothing, but instead kept her eyes fixed firmly on the doors of the police station. With difficulty Clark cleared a path for her, pushing journalists out of the way but always taking care not to use so much force as to arouse suspicion. Eventually, after the longest thirty seconds of her life, they made it to the door. They almost fell inside the building, and for a moment it appeared as if the journalists would follow them; however, the intervention of two armed officers ensured that none of the pack made it over the threshold.

The calm of the police station contrasted with the frenzied atmosphere of outside, but within seconds both Clark and Chloe were wondering whether they might have been better taking their chances with the reporters. An oppressive silence filled the air, with countless pairs of eyes all looking in their direction. However, these were not friendly eyes; the officers who now stared at them were stony-faced, even angry. It was not the welcome they were used to, but they were not surprised; Dean had been a popular guy, and to these men Clark and Chloe were the friends not of a hero, but of a cold-blooded killer.

It took them ten minutes to negotiate some time with Oliver. The officers in charge were professional, but all the time Clark and Chloe were aware of the barely concealed contempt that lurked beneath the surface. It was as if they were guilty by association, complicit in Dean's murder. Chloe felt relieved when at last they found themselves being led down a corridor towards an interview room, but it was relief tempered with anxiety; if they felt intimidated by the reception they had received at the station, how much worse must it be for Oliver?

Chloe was confused when they were first shown into the interview room. It was not what she was expecting; instead of a table and some chairs, she found herself staring at a large glass screen, stretching from the floor almost to the ceiling. It spanned the entire width of the room, bisecting the space in two. She looked at Clark, and then at the officer, her face demanding an explanation.

"No contact with the prisoner is allowed," said the detective coldly.

"But I want to see him... I want to see him properly, do you understand? Not like this."

"Nothing I can do, Miss Sullivan – I have my orders," he replied. "You have three minutes – no more."

"Three minutes! But that's..."

"Chloe! It's okay, yeah?"

Clark laid a hand on Chloe's shoulder, just in time to prevent her from confronting the detective. He sensed that if they overstepped the mark they might not get any time with Oliver at all, and the look of contempt on the officer's face as he left the room just confirmed his suspicion.

They were alone again. Chloe turned towards the glass, trying to prepare herself for what was to come. It was strange, but she felt stronger now that she'd seen the footage of Oliver's dramatic capture. The pictures were shocking, but at least now she knew that he was alive – those long, desperate hours spent fearing the worst were over at last. She knew where he was, and he was safe – after everything that had happened, that seemed almost like a blessing. Surely now they could begin to fight back, to unravel the web of lies that had ensnared them? Clark was here, and together they would find the truth – they would clear Oliver's name, free the guys and bring to justice the real killers. Somewhere deep inside her head she could hear a voice telling her it would not be that easy, but she could not deal with that now – now she just had to cling on to whatever shred of hope she could find. The capture of the guys, Dean's murder, the framing and unmasking of Oliver – all these things she had to block out of her mind if she was to keep it together. And she knew that she must keep it together - now, more than ever.

She stood for a moment, trying to compose herself. Could she handle this? She knew that she had to see him, to be with him, but now, standing in the silence waiting for his arrival, she was suddenly overwhelmed with doubt. What if she crumbled? What if she couldn't control her emotions? It would kill him to see her like that, and what right did she have to pile yet more agony onto his shoulders? Wasn't he suffering enough, without seeing her fall apart? She must stay strong – for his sake, she must stay strong. And yet... what if she couldn't? What if at the critical moment her courage failed her?

There was no more time to think. Beyond the screen, a door was opening. Two uniformed officers appeared, followed by...

Chloe gasped; it was worse than she had expected – much, much worse...

Oliver stood there, but this was not an Oliver that she recognised. Gone was the costume of the Green Arrow; stripped of his leathers, he now wore an orange jumpsuit, courtesy of Metropolis' Police Department. His hands were cuffed in front of him, but worse, these were attached by a long chain to some leg-irons that had been fastened around his ankles. He'd not yet appeared in front of any judge, but he already looked like a man who had been tried and convicted.

Their eyes met, and for a moment time seemed to stand still. Just for a second, the nightmare that was overwhelming them melted away; they had found each other once more, and at that instant nothing else seemed to matter. Chloe's heart swelled, so much so that she thought it would burst; engulfed by a wave of emotion, she opened her mouth to speak, but no words would come. All she could do was stare into those deep, brown eyes, eyes which, despite everything, still shone more beautifully for her than any star in the night's sky.

"Chloe...," he said at last, his voice drifting over the top of the thick glass screen.

The sound of his voice caused something inside her to crack. She almost threw herself at the invisible barrier, pressing her hands against the glass as if she were willing it to break.

"Oliver! Oliver, I..."

"Chloe, you shouldn't have come here," he interrupted, moving to meet her on the other side of the glass. "It's not safe – you and Clark need to leave."

"I'm going to get you out of here, I promise! Clark's here, and we're going to get you out of here," she continued breathlessly, choking back the tears that she had promised herself she would not shed.

"Hey! It's okay, yeah? Everything's going to be okay," he said soothingly, trying to offer her some words of comfort. He reached up, placing his hand against hers so that only the thickness of the glass separated them. "Nothing is going to break us apart, remember? Nothing – not even this."

Again there was a moment of silence, the two of them staring deep into each other's eyes. She so wanted to hold him, to pull him close and feel his body next to hers, but it was impossible; the glass barrier meant that they were to be denied the consolation of a genuine embrace.

"You're hurt...Oliver, you're hurt!" she said finally, noticing a cut above his left eye.

"It's nothing... really," he replied, trying to make light of what on closer inspection appeared to be quite a deep cut. "One of detectives got a bit carried away during questioning, that's all – I guess being accused of killing a cop hasn't made me the most popular guy around here."

"Oliver, what happened?" asked Clark. "Do you know who's behind all this?"

Oliver glanced up at the security camera mounted on the wall, before looking back at Clark. The message was clear; this meeting was being monitored.

"I can't tell you much," he said, his voice low. "But whoever's behind this, it goes way beyond me. They've got the guys, Clark – they've got Victor, Bart and AC."

"Do you know what's happened to them?"

"No, but you've got to find them, Clark. They're in danger – you've got to find them before it's too late."

"We'll find them, I promise," replied Clark. There was something in the way Oliver spoke, an urgency to his words, that was unsettling; it was as if he knew that his team were running out of time...

"But what about you? We can't just leave you here – not like this," said Chloe.

"That's exactly what you must do," said Oliver, once more staring deep into her eyes as if he were willing her to understand. "I must stay and face these charges, Chloe. If I don't, then I'll be playing into their hands. I'd be a fugitive, with no chance of clearing my name. No, I must face this – in court I'll be able to tell the world the truth. If I expose Hoskins then I might smoke out who's really behind all this."

"No...no, there has to be a better way," pleaded Chloe, knowing as she spoke that it was pointless to argue; Oliver had already made up his mind.

"This is for the best, believe me," he replied, watching as a tear began to roll silently down her face. "Hey, don't cry! We're going to get through this, yeah? But I need my sidekick to stay strong for me – can you do that? Can you do that for me, Chloe?"

"Time's up, Queen."

The hard voice of one of the guards signalled that their three minutes was over.

"Clark, look after her for me," continued Oliver, ignoring the instruction. "These guys are killers, and they'll stop at nothing to get to me. No one's safe – no one. Promise me you'll protect her – whatever happens."

The intensity of Oliver's gaze again unsettled Clark. Those last two words hung in the air, loaded with meaning...

_Whatever happens._

What was Oliver not telling them? What was he holding back? Clark couldn't help but feel that there was a warning there, a warning that Oliver knew that this might not work out okay in the end after all...

"I promise," he replied. Oliver appeared relieved, like a man who had just had a burden lifted from his shoulders.

"I said, time's up," repeated the guard, frustration evident in his voice. He began to walk towards Oliver, determined to make his prisoner comply...

"Chloe, you need to trust me, okay?" continued Oliver, turning his attention to his other visitor. "I know this is hard, but it's for the best, I promise..."

"When I say time's up, I mean time's up!" said the guard, placing a hand firmly on Oliver's shoulder. Oliver did not respond, all his attention still focused on Chloe. That was a mistake; the guard, his simmering anger at last boiling over, grabbed Oliver by the arm and tried to pull him away. Oliver resisted, but that was all the encouragement the other man needed; taking his baton, he drove it hard into Oliver's gut, causing the young hero to double over in agony. A second blow to the back forced Oliver to his knees, yelping in pain under the impact of the blows.

"Stop it! Stop it – you're hurting him!" shouted Chloe, tears flowing readily down her face. Clark took her in his arms, holding her tight; together they could only watch as the guard, now joined by his partner, lifted Oliver from the floor and began to drag him towards the exit.

Just as they reached the door Oliver lifted his head. He looked straight at Chloe, his brave, longing eyes filled with emotion.

"I love you!" he mouthed, unable to give sound to his words.

And then he was gone.

* * *

Ollie behind bars! Can I make it any worse for our guy - sure I can! Things will get even more intense in the next few chapters, I promise - just wait and see!

Getting excited about Smallville coming back? Can't wait for the Ollie episodes - sounds like he's going to go through some serious trauma before he emerges on the other side, and that's just how I like it! Not too interested in Kent (no Ollie), but Booster looks good - promo shots of Eric Martsolf in the costume look amazing! Shame he won't get to play against Justin - they are friends in real life, and it would have been great to see them together on screen.

Thanks for reading, and thanks of course to those who review. Please, please do leave some feedback if you can - even a short review really does make my day!


	19. Chapter 19: The Trap Closes

**Chapter Nineteen: The Trap Closes**

Oliver lay on the bunk, staring at the ceiling. He'd been awake for an hour now, having slept soundly through the night. He'd not expected to sleep so well, but when, after hours of questioning, he had at last been offered a chance to rest, neither his mind nor his body had the strength to resist. The traumas of the previous forty-eight hours – the nightmare of Dean's murder, his ordeal at the hands of Slade, the humiliation of exposure and arrest – all had left him so exhausted that it was a blessed relief to escape into the oblivion of sleep. Mercifully, he had no recollection of what he had dreamt of, his tiredness robbing him of his ability to remember; he was thankful for this, thankful that for a few hours at least he had been able to escape the terrible events that were threatening to overwhelm him.

And he did feel overwhelmed. Everything had happened with such terrifying speed, he had barely had time to draw breath before some new disaster had overtaken him. Could it really be that just a few days earlier he had been swimming in the warm waters of the Caribbean, Chloe at his side? That seemed like a lifetime away, and yet that had been him, just five days ago – the billionaire playboy who could do no wrong, a man who had the world at his feet. The contrast with his current predicament could not have been more stark. Here he was, lying in a cramped cell. Its walls were daubed with obscenities, the marks of previous prisoners who had passed this way, and a faint smell of urine hung in the air. Stripped of his trademark leathers, he was clad in the jumpsuit that was the hallmark of a convicted felon, and away to his left the locked steel door served only to reinforce the reality of his new status as public enemy number one. A couple of weeks ago he was patrolling the streets of this city, helping to consign the criminals of Metropolis to places like this. Now, in the eyes of the people who had once revered him as a hero, he_ was_ one of those criminals, a vicious cop killer who deserved to be behind bars. How could this have happened? Who the hell was behind all this?

Even now, after the benefit of some much needed sleep, he still had no answer to that question. They did not lack resources, that much was clear – the operation he'd seen in action during his ill fated attempt to rescue Dean had demonstrated that. And they had friends in high places – Hoskins was proving to be a powerful ally in this plot to destroy him, feeding the appetite of both the press and the public for stories and lending a dangerous veneer of credibility to the lies that had so comprehensively blackened the name of his alter ego. But Hoskins was a pawn – just as that monster Slade was a pawn, albeit one of immense power and terrifying sadism. Oliver knew that his true foe, the mysterious puppet master who was orchestrating all of this, had yet to reveal himself. Whoever he was, his plan was succeeding with devastating effect. What was happening to him was bad enough, but it was only when he thought of the guys that he felt truly afraid. All of them were prisoners, but where were they? What did their captor have planned for them? He felt sick when he thought of them in Slade's clutches, helpless as he tortured them for his own twisted amusement. For them, more than for himself, he wanted to escape, so that he could join forces with Clark and come to their rescue – a hero once more.

_A hero._ He'd got used to thinking of himself in those terms, through all those months of fighting crime on the streets of the city. It was a label that the press had used more and more, as they had followed the exploits of the mysterious archer who single-handedly had rolled up the organised crime operations that had blighted Metropolis for so long. He'd felt flattered by the adulation, of course – he was only human, after all. But after so much praise, after all the plaudits and hero-worship, to find himself now portrayed as the villain... that left him hurt, bewildered even. He thought back to when he had faced the crowd the previous day, for the first time confronting the world as the Green Arrow. There had been so much anger, and the look on the face of that woman just before she had spat in his face – they _hated_ him, they actually _hated _him. Outwardly he had managed to keep it together, but inside...inside, he had felt shattered, numb. Being captured and tortured, those were things he had trained for; even being unmasked was something he had thought about, something he had known he might have to face some day. But being hated – that was an eventuality that had never once crossed his mind. His enemy had found a weakness he didn't even know he had; grimly, he had to acknowledge that whoever was doing this, they knew what they were doing. Not only were they attacking him outwardly, but they were also striking at the core of his emotional wellbeing, seeking out his vulnerabilities with devastating efficiency. First the capture of the guys, the team he felt a special responsibility for, and now this; step by step, the mental framework that kept him strong was being carefully, methodically, stripped away.

But he still had Chloe – whatever happened, she was still there for him. She had looked so fragile when she had visited him, the trials of the previous days obviously taking their toll. He could only imagine what she had been through, waiting for all those hours not knowing whether he was alive or dead. His love for her was what had sustained him during those interminable sessions on Slade's torture frame, her face appearing in his mind's eye and giving him courage even as his tormentor subjected him to another bout of simulated drowning. They could do anything to him, but as long as he had her, he knew he could survive. It was a thought that both inspired him, but also filled him with dread. If his enemy was striking at his weaknesses, seeking to undermine his willingness to fight, then what if they targeted Chloe? That, he knew, was something he would not be able to endure. He could only hope that Clark would be able to protect her, because something told him that this was far from being over...

The sound of a key clanking in the lock signalled that his rest was over. He turned his head, just in time to see two guards step into the cell.

"On your feet, Queen," ordered one of them, stony-faced. Without saying a word, Oliver did as he was told. Emotions were running high after Dean's murder, and the officers who were holding him didn't need much excuse to allow their anger to take a violent form; the cut above his eye was ample testament to that.

He stood still as the leg irons and cuffs were put in place. A shove to his back propelled him forwards, and soon he found himself once more walking along the corridor towards the interview room. He'd already sat through hours of questioning, but try as he might he was no closer to convincing the detectives that he was being framed. The footage of the imposter robbing those banks, the film of the Green Arrow kidnapping Hoskins, the testimony of the DA, and above all the arrow in Dean's lifeless body – the weight of evidence against him, so skilfully put in place by his unseen foe, appeared overwhelming. Oliver couldn't really blame them if they believed he was a killer – hell, if he was in their position, he'd probably believe he was a murderer as well.

On arrival at the interview room Oliver again stood silently as his shackles were removed. Already he was becoming accustomed to the routine, but this time there was something different. Ordered to sit down, his ankles were then manacled to the chair legs, before his arms were forced behind him. He winced as they were brought back around the rear of the chair, before a new pair of handcuffs fastened his wrists together. Whatever was about to happen, the guards were taking no chances; he tested his bonds as they left the room, but they offered no chance of escape.

He didn't have to wait long to discover the reason for his predicament. After a gap of only a few seconds, Hoskins entered the room, his lips wreathed in a sneering, contemptuous grin.

"Oliver!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with mocking bonhomie. "I thought I'd drop by and see how you're handling life on the inside. Are they treating you well? Sorry about the quality of the jumpsuit, by the way – but last time I looked, Armani don't do a line in designer prison wear."

Oliver scowled at Hoskins, but did not reply. He knew that the other man had come to gloat, and he was damned if he was going to play ball.

"You're front page news, Oliver – the whole world is talking about you," continued Hoskins, pulling up a chair and taking up a position opposite his silent prisoner. "I thought you might like to see some of the headlines – maybe not quite what you're used to, but it's not every day a billionaire with a fetish for green leather gets arrested for killing a cop, is it?"

Casually he laid out four or five newspapers onto the table. Unable to help himself, Oliver glanced down at them, but immediately he wished he hadn't. Two photos dominated every front page. One was the shot of him lying bound and gagged on the sidewalk, his eyes wide with fear as his hood was pulled away. The other was a picture of him being led through that crowd, chained and stoical whilst surrounded by a sea of angry faces.

"Not your standard paparazzi shots, but you know something, Oliver? I don't think you've ever looked better," sneered Hoskins, delighting in the moment. Still smarting from being kidnapped and locked up in the trunk of a car by Oliver, he was keen to have his own moment of triumph over the stricken hero.

"What do you want, Hoskins?" demanded Oliver, staring the other man straight in the eye. "Want to enjoy your moment, is that it? A good man is dead – does that make you feel good? You're scum, Hoskins – and I won't rest until I see you pay for what you did to Dean."

Hoskins laughed. "Brave words, Oliver – words fit for a hero! But aren't you forgetting something? Everyone thinks you killed Detective Caruso – and I don't see anyone rushing forward with evidence to clear your name, do you?"

"Who are you working for? Who's behind all this?"

"Hoping to tempt me into making some incriminating statement, Oliver?" replied Hoskins, glancing up at the camera mounted high in one corner of the room. "Sorry to disappoint you, but this little meeting of ours is strictly off the record – and just in case you're wondering, no, no one is listening in."

Slowly he got up from his seat, before walking around and perching on the edge of the table. He stared down at Oliver, relishing the power he had over his captive.

"You have no idea how much pleasure this is giving me, Oliver," he continued, his tone now conversational. "To see you like this, after all that you've done to me – a sweeter feeling you cannot imagine, believe you me."

"I asked you a question, Hoskins," demanded Oliver, trying to control his anger. "Who are you working for? Why won't he show his face, instead of working through pieces of crap like you?"

"Now, now, Oliver – there's no need to be a sore loser. My partner has every intention of revealing his identity – he just needs you to do one more thing for him."

"Really? What's that?"

"Plead guilty to killing Dean Caruso."

There was silence for a moment, Oliver not quite believing what he had just heard. Plead guilty – were they mad?

"This is a joke, right?" he said at last.

"No joke, Oliver. When you walk into that courtroom this afternoon, you will confess to murdering Detective Caruso."

Oliver stared at Hoskins, incredulous at what he was hearing. Hoskins did not flinch; instead he returned Oliver's gaze with a look of absolute certainty...

"You're insane, do you know that?" said Oliver, trying to quell his growing unease. "When I go into that courtroom I'm going to blow the lid off your little conspiracy, Hoskins – I'm going to tell the world about what really happened to Dean."

"No – no you won't, Oliver. You are going to say exactly what I am going to tell you to say –nothing more, nothing less."

"And why the hell would I do that? Why would I confess to something I didn't do?"

Hoskins smiled – a twisted, evil little smile. This was the moment he'd been waiting for – the moment that would live in his memory for years to come.

"Because if you don't, Oliver, Chloe Sullivan will die."

* * *

The courtroom was packed, reporters and members of the public vying with each other to secure the best possible seats. The noise of hundreds of voices in such a small space was almost deafening, but it was not this which most unnerved Chloe. Instead it was those countless pairs of eyes, all looking in her direction. Some people glanced at her, only to look away in embarrassment when she met their gaze. Others were more shameless, continuing to stare long after good manners would have shamed a better person into averting their eyes. In the absence of Oliver, she was the center of attention, the focus of hundreds of whispered questions; the warm up act, before the star turn made his appearance.

She hated it, but she knew she had to be there. This was to be Oliver's first appearance in public since the humiliation of his arrest, and she wanted to be there for him. Although the stolen looks and murmured conversations made her uncomfortable, she was also in a strange way glad – glad to have the opportunity to make such a public statement of her support for Oliver, her belief in his innocence. This, after all, would be the beginning of the fight back, the moment when he put on record his rejection of the fabricated charges which had been made against him. Clark was with her, sitting at her side and offering his support. Where would she have been without him, these last twenty-four hours? Once again, he had been her rock, an oasis of calm good sense in a maelstrom of conflicting emotions.

A door opened, and the judge made his entrance. As Chloe stood she could feel herself becoming tense – it wouldn't be long before Oliver made his appearance...

Just as the judge took his seat a collective gasp could be heard around the courtroom. Chloe turned to look, to find Oliver standing in the door way, framed by two armed guards. Once again he was shackled hand and foot, and he was still wearing the jumpsuit supplied at the police station. Chloe felt a flush of anger; it was obvious that someone was determined to humiliate Oliver as much as possible. Would it have hurt them to allow him to wear a suit? Or were they so twisted that wanted to subject him to as much public disgrace as possible?

She looked at his face, hoping that he would see her. She could see his eyes darting this way and that, searching the crowd for her...

Then their eyes met. Chloe had expected to find herself staring into the eyes of the Oliver she had seen the day before, confident and strong. But this was not that Oliver; instead this was the Oliver of the film clips, fearful and uncertain. Color seemed to drain from his features as he looked at her, a deep, overpowering sadness in those once beautiful brown eyes.

Chloe knew immediately something was terribly, terribly wrong. She wanted to shout out, to help him, but the proceedings of the court would not be denied.

Oliver stood as the lawyers began their work, the prosecutors outlining the case against him. He didn't hear a word of it. All he could think of was Chloe sitting behind him in the body of the court – and the man who sat in the seat directly behind. There was no mistaking who it was, of course – that perverted smile would haunt his dreams forever.

_Slade!_

What was it that Hoskins had said? _Do as we say, or Chloe Sullivan won't leave that courtroom alive._ Now it was all too clear how his hidden enemy intended to make good on his threat. Chloe sat just inches away from a ruthless killer, poised and ready to strike if he didn't do exactly as they wanted. All Slade had to do was reach forward and place his hands around Chloe's neck – one snap and it would all be over, even before Clark was aware something was wrong.

They'd got him, and he knew it.

"Your honor, I want to make a statement," he said loudly, interrupting his own defence attorney.

There was silence in the court, all eyes turned towards the young hero. Most who stared believed they were about to hear a declaration of innocence; only Oliver and his tormentors knew the terrible truth.

"I did it," he said clearly, his eyes fixed firmly on the judge. "I killed Detective Caruso."

* * *

I told you things were going to get worse, didn't I? Lex is so evil - that's why I love him! And he's not finished yet, I'm afraid - he has so many fresh torments to inflict on our hero in the chapters to come! He will be making an appearance in the next chapter, when his full plan will be revealed - stand by for some more shocks!

I am still trying to recover from seeing those Dominion promo shots. Do you know the ones I mean? If you haven't seen them, check out one of the Smallville sites (and one where you can see them in glorious High Quality - you MUST see these promos in high quality!). Honestly, I don't think Justin has ever looked better - stunning, just stunning! How I'm going to live without seeing him on Smallville I just do not know - really I don't. I guess I must enjoy the few episodes we have left, and Dominion looks like it could be a great Ollie episode.

Thanks for reading, and of course thanks to those who post reviews - you are the best! Please do leave some feedback if you can. I love to hear from you, and without reviews I know I would not keep on writing - it's as simple as that.


	20. Chapter 20: A Dish Best Served Cold

**Chapter Twenty: A Dish Best Served Cold**

_**Be warned: Major Ollie angst ahead!**_

Oliver's admission of guilt provoked uproar in the courtroom. Angry shouts from members of the public mixed with a hundred breathless phone conversations from reporters eager to tell the outside world of the latest twist in the sensation that was the fall of one of the country's richest men. It took the judge two minutes to restore order, and not before some people had had to be evicted from the room. Oliver was barely aware of any of it. Nor was he aware of his attorney remonstrating with him, obviously stunned by his client's unexpected statement, or the words of the judge, accepting his guilty plea and setting a date for sentencing. All he could think of was the young woman who he knew was sitting just a few feet behind where he stood. He wanted to turn around, to explain, but he couldn't. Hoskins had been brutally clear – any attempt to communicate with Chloe, even to mouth a few words, would result in her death. Those were the terms he had accepted, the price he had to pay to protect the woman he loved. It was easier, therefore, not to turn and face her; he could not take the risk of putting her life in danger. Besides, to turn...well, it was just too much. He couldn't bear the thought of staring into those beautiful eyes, desolate and uncomprehending. After all she had been through, to have to endure this... it was a cruelty beyond measure.

At last this latest humiliation reached its conclusion. Two guards took him by the arms, guiding him towards the exit of the court. Now, shockingly, the shackles and jumpsuit seemed terrifyingly appropriate; he was a convicted killer, his ruin complete.

As he was led away the courtroom erupted once more. He tried to focus on the door, which seemed to offer both the possibility of escape, but also a gateway to oblivion. He was aware of countless eyes staring at him, people shouting and trying to get him to look so that they could capture the moment on their cell phones forever. Then one voice, heartbreakingly familiar, cut through the cacophony:

"Oliver!"

It was Chloe. He could not help himself; he turned his head, and for a second their eyes met. A hundred emotions passed between them in that second, deaf to the blizzard of sound that surrounded them. Hurt, regret, fear, uncertainty, incomprehension, terror, despair – these and so many more were in the eyes of the two young lovers. Just a week before they had been looking forward to sharing their lives together - now they faced the prospect of permanent separation. He wanted to say sorry, the word taking shape on his lips...

But then he saw Slade, standing now just a foot or so behind her. He grinned, raising an eyebrow as if to dare Oliver to speak, to break the terms of his deal. Oliver hesitated; he could see the sadistic desire in the other man's eyes, willing him to give him the excuse he needed to reach forward and break Chloe's neck...

"Move!" ordered one of the guards. He pushed Oliver forwards into the corridor beyond, the door swinging shut behind them.

She was gone.

Numb, he felt nothing as they marched him down the passage towards the elevator. All he could see was that image of Chloe, distraught as she watched him being led away. What must she be thinking? How would she survive this? The thought of what she must be going through – it was just too terrible for words. And somewhere deep within himself he knew instinctively that it would be a long time before he got a chance to explain – if he ever got chance to explain...

His guards said nothing as they led him into the elevator. He didn't notice what floor button they pressed, but was vaguely aware that they were heading downwards. A memory flashed into his mind, of all those months ago, when in very different circumstances he had found himself in an elevator, descending into a living hell of incarceration and hopelessness. Then, of course, he had been Lex's prisoner, the victim of an elaborate plan to ensnare the Green Arrow...

_Lex..._

The name reverberated in his mind, and for a split second he wondered...

No, it couldn't be – he was dead, remember? AC had buried him himself. Whoever was behind this, it couldn't be Lex – the Luthors were powerful, but not even they could reach out from beyond the grave...

"Out!" ordered one of the guards, bringing Oliver back to reality. The elevator had come to a halt, and its doors had opened onto a dimly lit corridor. Presumably they were in the basement, somewhere close to the parking area. Assuming that he was being taken to a waiting prison truck, Oliver felt a pang of relief; the anonymity of a sealed van would spare him the ordeal of another bank of voracious photographers, eager to record every chapter in his spectacular fall from grace.

He was wrong. Instead of being taken to a waiting truck, the guards guided him to the left, and a closed door. One of the men punched an access code into a keypad, before pushing open the door. Oliver's heart sank; inside he could see Hoskins, grinning from ear to ear.

Pushed inside, Oliver said nothing, but simply stared at the floor. He had had enough of Hoskins's games; tired, the thought of having to endure another round of taunts from this low-life was just too much to bear.

"You can leave us," said Hoskins, addressing the guards. "The S3 unit will be here in a couple of minutes, and I don't think Mr Queen is going to give us any trouble, are you, Oliver?"

Oliver could sense the guards' reluctance to withdraw, but after a moment's hesitation they made their exit, closing the door behind them.

"Well that was one hell of a performance you gave up there, Oliver – I'm impressed, really I am!" said Hoskins, barely able to contain his obvious delight.

"Cut the crap, Hoskins," said Oliver wearily. "You've got what you wanted, so let's get this over with, yeah?"

"_Got what I wanted? Oliver, I've barely begun to get what I want from you."_

Oliver froze. The words, chilling in their absolute certainty, seemed to hang in the air, pregnant with meaning. They were not Hoskins' words; he just continued to stare, his eyes flashing in excited expectation of what was to come. Instead they were the words of a man whose voice Oliver instantly recognised, the voice of a man he thought he'd never see again...

Dazed, he slowly began to turn. He already knew who stood just a few feet behind him, living proof that nightmares really do come true...

_Lex!_

The two men stared at each other for a moment, neither speaking. For Oliver, there were no words; struck dumb, he could only look, open-mouthed in disbelief. Everything made sense now; like a puzzle where he'd been missing the final piece, everything now fell into place. The elaborate set-up, the capture of the guys, the public humiliation and disgrace – all of it, the work of the man who now stood before him, exultant. He felt physically sick, shell shocked by a truth that was truly devastating. Reeling, he cursed himself for his own stupidity. How could he have not seen this? It was so obvious, now that you thought about it. Who else but Lex would want to orchestrate something as elaborate as all of this? He'd been complacent, and let his guard down. Now he would pay for it – they would all pay for it...

"What? Nothing to say, Oliver?" said Lex casually, flanked by Cohen and another man. "I'm disappointed, but perhaps not surprised – it's not every day a man you thought was dead comes back to visit, is it?"

"How...?"

"How am I alive? The how doesn't matter, Oliver – let's just say rumours of my death were greatly exaggerated. By the way, I'm hurt that you didn't come to my funeral – after all, I have every intention of coming to yours."

"But AC... AC said you were dead... the doctor confirmed it..."

"Ahhhh, AC, AC! So much strength, but so little brain! Not your best decision to make blondie my jailer, Oliver. Still, he's regretting his mistake now – just like the rest of your little gang of freaks."

Oliver swayed a little, almost overcome by what was happening. He knew that Lex had probably spent months preparing for this moment, working on every line, perfecting every twisted quip. Lex lived for opportunities such as this, when he could play out the little drama that he'd fantasised about for so long. Lex Luthor, triumphant over his enemy; Oliver had seen it all before, but that didn't make it any easier to bear. And this time was so much worse, because he had had no time to steel himself mentally. Here he was, in the eyes of the world a convicted killer, standing face to face with the man who had not only brought about his downfall, but who also held the lives of his friends in his hands. It was a situation that nothing could have prepared him for, but somehow he knew he had to get a grip...

Oliver was right; Lex had been preparing for this moment. In fact, he'd been preparing for it from the moment his cell door had slammed shut at Bateman, all those months before. He'd been at his lowest ebb at that moment, with everything apparently lost; all he'd had to look forward to was imprisonment in a Queen Industries facility, courtesy of the man he hated more than anything else in the world. But he'd been strong, and the thought of this moment had sustained him through those long, dark days of captivity. Every waking hour had been spent planning Oliver's destruction, with every detail moulded to perfection in his mind. He'd not wanted simply to kill Oliver – that would have been too quick, too easy. No, he'd always thought on a grand scale, and there could be no bigger canvas than to craft the absolute ruin of the billionaire who seemed to have everything. And he had done it – he had done what he'd set out to do. Oliver was finished – there could be no coming back from this. His friends were in captivity, unable to come to his rescue. His alter ego, far from being the heroic vigilante, was now a hated cop killer. And – best of all – he had been unmasked. Those images of Oliver in his trademark leathers, bound and gagged and lying in the gutter – those were images Lex knew he would treasure for as long as he lived. _This _was what revenge was all about: degradation, utter degradation. Oliver deserved it, of course – he had brought all of this on himself, by daring to stand in his way. He only had himself to blame for his current state, shackled and dressed in the jumpsuit of a convicted felon. He had to pay for what he had done; he, Lex Luthor, would have his pound of flesh.

And so, finally, it had come to this. Lex had indeed been dreaming of this moment, rehearsing his every line, playing it out in his mind time and time again. Still he could not quite believe it. After all the setbacks, all those times when he had had victory in his grasp, to have Oliver at his mercy... it seemed just too good to be true. Ever since their time together at Excelsior, the two had been rivals; Lex had lost out to the other man so many times he had almost convinced himself that final victory would always elude him. And yet here he was, winner in the one battle that really mattered – the final battle.

His heart was pumping furiously in his chest, but outwardly he appeared serene; he was determined to enjoy this moment, to show by his manner his absolute mastery of all...

"Where are they?" gasped Oliver, still obviously in shock. "What have you done with my friends?"

"You know, I just _knew_ you were going to ask me that," replied Lex playfully; he'd anticipated mention of AC's name provoking Oliver's response, and he was ready. "The heroic Green Arrow, always putting the needs of his team first! They're enjoying a little LuthorCorp hospitality, Oliver – here, take a look."

He looked to his right, towards a screen mounted on the wall. Oliver followed his gaze, tensing in expectation of what he was about to see. Nothing, however, could have prepared him for the sequence of horrific images that now played out before his eyes.

As the screen came to life he could see an image of Bart. The teenager was slumped against the wall of what appeared to be a padded cell, and as the camera moved closer it was clear that he was restrained by some sort of straightjacket.

"First up we have Bart Allen, aka Impulse," announced Lex, clearly intent on providing a running commentary. "The kid put up quite a struggle, I can tell you – but as you can see, a little medication has curbed his more rebellious streak."

The camera had closed in on Bart's face. His eyes were glazed over, and a dribble of saliva could be seen running down his chin. He looked completely out of it, little more than a husk of the boy who had once been so full of life.

"Oh, don't worry, Oliver – he'll live. I've got plans for Bart, once he's undergone a little – what shall we call it? Therapy?"

Oliver said nothing. All he could do was look at the screen, and Bart's empty, staring eyes...

Suddenly the picture changed. At first Oliver thought something had gone wrong with Lex's sick little home movie, as the screen appeared black. Then a ghostly image of a man's face appeared, picked out by what must have been infra-red lighting. The camera could only have been inches from the man's face; he was gagged, and a thick leather strap could be seen anchoring his forehead against what appeared to be a metal plate.

Oliver gasped, recognising the young man who now stared, wide-eyed and terrified, into the lens...

_AC!_

"And here we have everyone's favourite surf boy, Arthur Curry, aka Aquaman," said Lex, sounding more and more as if he were introducing contestants on some perverted version of a talent show. "Paralysed by a little compound my scientists put together, he's experiencing the closest thing to a living death that you can imagine. But do you want to know the best thing? These pictures don't show it, but he's actually in a pod anchored to the bottom of the sea. Aquaman, Lord of the oceans, slowly dying just inches from the water that could save him – it's almost poetry, don't you think?"

Oliver was barely listening. He was transfixed by the image of AC, his terrified face filling the screen. It was as if he were crying out in the darkness, willing someone – anyone – to come and save him from such an unspeakable nightmare.

It was too much – it was all just too much.

He knew what was coming, and within seconds his fears were confirmed. The picture changed again, this time to what appeared to be a laboratory. Victor could be seen, lying motionless on a gurney and hooked up to a battery of monitors.

"And so finally we come to the third member of your crew, Victor Stone, aka Cyborg," said Lex. "If he looks dead...well, in one sense, he is. That's his body, sure, but it's not really him. This is Victor, or what's left of him – all safely stored on a flash drive."

Luthor held aloft the tiny memory stick. He'd wanted to end with a flourish, and he could tell from the look on Oliver's face that he'd achieved what he'd set out to do. The young hero looked shattered. The fate of his friends, so glibly presented by Lex, had left him reeling; the cruelty that he had witnessed, the cruelty that even now they were being forced to endure, was too terrible to put into words. His team, his friends, subjected to such indescribable torment – and he was powerless to stop it.

"So what do you think, Oliver?" demanded Lex, eager to press home his advantage over the stricken vigilante. "As you can see, all those months you had me locked up in Bateman didn't go to waste. I had a lot of time to think – time to think about how I would make you and your boys pay for what you did to me. I have to say, I'm quite proud of the end result – there's almost an artistry to it all, don't you think? They say that the punishment should fit the crime – well, I prefer to think of this as the punishment fitting the freak. The punk in my own version of juvie hall, Curry rotting on the ocean bed, Stone reduced to a few megabytes of memory – you've got to admit, there's no one in the world who could have scripted this better!"

"Stop it!" shouted Oliver, unable to take any more. "Stop it, damn you! I'm what you want - let them go!"

Lex laughed. "Let them _go_? Oliver, please – you know that's not going to happen. Bart will live, like I said, but Curry and Stone – they have to die."

Something inside Oliver cracked. Perhaps it was the heartbreaking images of his friends, and the knowledge that he could do nothing to save them. Perhaps it was Lex's casual manner, talking about their torture and murder as if it were little more than some form of light entertainment. Whatever it was, he'd had enough. Letting out a guttural roar of anger, he lunged forwards towards Lex, his face contorted with rage. His wrists were shackled, but still he reached out; he wanted to do what he should have done months earlier, and kill the man who now threatened the lives of his team. Lex had expected something like this, and was ready; he neatly sidestepped Oliver's attack, allowing Oliver to fall awkwardly against the wall. He wasn't given an opportunity to recover, Cohen moving in swiftly and placing a taser against his neck. He cried out in pain as ten thousand volts coursed through his body, twisting in agony before slumping to the floor.

"Oliver, Oliver, you disappoint me!" said Lex, towering over the young hero. "All that anger – it's not going to help your freak friends, is it?"

He placed his foot against Oliver's side, rolling him over on to his back. Again the two men stared at each over, Oliver's eyes flashing with impotent rage as he looked up at the man who had so comprehensively outmanoeuvred him.

"You always were a sore loser, Oliver," continued Lex. "And we haven't even got to the best bit yet – I haven't told you what I've got planned for you."

"Go to hell, Lex!" gasped Oliver. "Go to hell, you sick fu..."

"Shut your mouth!" snapped Lex, stamping down hard on Oliver's gut. "Miss Cohen, I think our friend Mr Queen has said quite enough for one day, don't you? And make him more secure – I wouldn't want him to hurt himself."

Lex stepped back, making room for Cohen and the other man. Lex and Hoskins watched as they set about their work, first uncuffing Oliver before flipping him over onto his back. Oliver started to struggle, but the man pinioned him securely to the floor as Cohen grabbed his arms and forced them behind his back. Fresh handcuffs were applied, only this time they were secured to a thick leather belt that was strapped tightly around Oliver's neck. The effect was to leave him almost completely immobilised, so that any movement caused him severe discomfort. To complete his humiliation Cohen pulled a rag from her pocket, compressing it into a ball before ramming it in Oliver's mouth. He tried to spit it out, but Cohen was too quick for him; a long strip of duct tape wrapped two or three times around his head secured it in place.

"That's better," said Lex, watching as Cohen hauled Oliver up onto his knees. Pulling a knife from her belt, she pressed it against the exposed skin of Oliver's neck, forcing his head back so that he had no choice but to look up into the eyes of his captor.

"Careful, Miss Cohen – we wouldn't want to damage that handsome face, now would we? Not when we know how much Oliver's new friends are looking forward to seeing it."

Cohen smirked, knowing full well what lay behind Lex's words. She pulled the helpless hero's body against hers, tightening her grip as her boss prepared to deliver the coup de grace.

"Now, where was I?" continued Lex, looking down at his stricken captive. "Ahh, yes – ruining your life."

Oliver, his chest heaving as he tried to recover from Cohen's assault, stared back defiantly, his eyes flashing with anger. It was the only resistance he could offer; the knife against his throat and the tape wrapped so cruelly around his mouth meant that Lex now had the stage to himself.

"I thought long and hard about how to punish you, Oliver," continued Lex, his conversational tone in stark contrast to the meaning of the words he now uttered. "After all you've done to me, it had to be special – something truly unique. And you know something - I think I've achieved that, don't you? All those months of planning – well, seeing you here, like this, it makes it all _so_ worthwhile. Oliver Queen, the man who had it all! Now what are you? A convicted cop killer, hated by the city that once thought you walked on water. Does that hurt, Oliver? Does it hurt to know that out there they hate you? No? I think it does – I think that hurts that oversized ego of yours more than you'd ever care to admit, doesn't it?"

Oliver glared at Lex. He could sense the other man was getting into his stride, but there was nothing he could do; it was clear that Lex was determined to have his moment.

"Of course there's something you don't know – a little surprise I've been keeping up my sleeve, saving for this - _really special_ - reunion," said Lex, pulling a piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket. Oliver's eyes widened, wondering what new torment his vengeful enemy now had in store.

"You see, it was never going to be enough for me to destroy your reputation, Oliver," continued Lex. "You took away months of my life when you locked me up at Bateman – months I'll never get back. Not to mention all those LuthorCorp facilities you and your little band of freaks so kindly blew up. I think it's only right that I get some compensation, don't you? Well, I've taken it – in the form of Queen Industries."

A look of puzzlement and fear flashed across Oliver's face. What did he mean? What was going on?

"Aww, you look confused, Oliver – here, let me explain. Remember when you went off for that vacation with Chloe a few weeks ago, down on your little island paradise in the Caribbean? Remember how you left Jack Richards in charge? Dear old Jack – he's been with you now, what, fifteen years? Fifteen years of faithful service – and all the time he was really working for LuthorCorp."

Lex paused, enjoying the look of shock on Oliver's face. He could see that he was beginning to understand – it was time to move in for the kill...

"Yes, Oliver – Jack works for _me._ My father planted him in Queen Industries all those years ago, but I don't think he could have ever imagined just how useful Jack Richards would prove to be. Over the last couple of weeks he's been quite busy, organising the transfer of Queen Industries assets to LuthorCorp. I think he's just about done – you know he's worked so hard, I think I might give him a bonus."

Oliver appeared dazed. Slowly, he shook his head in disbelief, not quite able to take in this latest catastrophe.

"Ohh, it's all true, Oliver," said Lex. "Don't you remember? You signed a paper, giving Richards complete authority over the company. Here, take a look – that's your signature, if I'm not mistaken."

Lex thrust the paper in front of Oliver. He recognised the Queen Industries logo, his signature at the bottom of the page...

Oliver slumped forwards, visibly broken. That mystery payment to Hoskins, made from one of his own accounts – it all made sense now. Lex had been so confident he'd even presented him with a clue as to what was happening, but he'd been too blind to see it.

"Don't feel too bad, Oliver," said Lex, putting the paper back in his pocket. "After all, where you're going, I don't think you're going to need much money, do you?"

There was a knock at the door. A man in a suit entered, his build and stern expression a sign that he was part of Cohen's hired muscle.

"The S3 Unit is arriving, Mr Luthor – they're about a minute away."

"Well, I guess this is it," said Lex, looking down at Oliver, who continued to stare blankly at the floor. "I should have said, by the way – courtesy of my friend Hoskins here, they're sending you somewhere special. Not for you the state pen – no, for a high value con like you, the government has facilities that even Queen Industries doesn't know about."

Lex's words hung in the air, full of foreboding of what lay in store for the man who knelt, shattered, before him. Oliver barely heard them; his heard was spinning, reeling from the sequence of revelations which had in just a few minutes torn his world apart. Blow after blow had rained down on him, the impact of Lex's words more powerful than any physical torment that he had ever endured. It was all gone – everything he'd worked for, finished. His fortune, his good name, his friends – Lex had taken it all. He couldn't survive this – he just couldn't...

"Look at me."

Lex spoke quietly, his words echoing chillingly around the room.

"Look at me, Oliver."

Again, he spoke. Oliver did not respond; still he stared at the floor, mentally and physically unable to take any more.

"Look at him, you piece of shit!" snarled Cohen, grabbing Oliver by the hair and jerking his head back violently. Maintaining her grip, she left the young hero with no choice but to face his tormentor.

"I want you to remember this moment, Oliver," hissed Lex, leaning down a little so that he was eye to eye with his captive. "Remember how it feels – how it feels to know you've lost _everything_. Your freaks, your money, your fortune – I've taken it _all, _Oliver. At long last, our war is over – and you lose, my friend."

The two men glared at each other. Oliver's eyes sparkled with rage and defiance, the sight of Lex standing triumphant over him summoning up a final flash of resistance. Lex smiled, the corner of his lip curling into a malevolent grin; he had one final card to play, and he knew that now was the time to play it.

"Of course there is one thing I haven't taken from you," he said coolly. "One thing that means more to you than anything else."

Lex paused, enjoying the look of fear he could now see in Oliver's eyes.

"Ahh, yes – you know what I'm talking about, don't you Oliver? Chloe Sullivan – the love of your life!"

The words were said in a heavy, mocking tone. Despair replaced fear in Oliver's eyes:

_Not Chloe – please God, not Chloe!_

"Sorry Oliver, but you didn't really think I'd spare her, did you? No, I have plans for Chloe. I'll keep them to myself for now – it will give you something to think about in your new home. Not that you'll have much time for thinking – not given the reception my friend Hoskins has organised for you."

Again, the veiled hint of fresh torments to come flew over Oliver's head. He could only think of the threat to Chloe. Desperate, he pulled himself free from Cohen's grip. Frantically he started to pull at his bonds, twisting this way and that in a hopeless attempt to work himself free. He shot a glance at Lex; the other man stood, motionless, watching him struggle, a look of mild amusement on his face. Both men knew it was pointless, but Oliver felt he had to try; his love for Chloe, his love for his friends, compelled him on, even when he knew he had no chance of escape. Tears began to well up in his eyes. How had this happened? He was the good guy, the hero – he couldn't lose, not like _this_. It was all wrong – it was all so wrong...

Lex had seen enough. He nodded to Cohen, who then grabbed Oliver by the hair once more, before again pressing the point of her knife against his neck. Oliver stopped struggling; the time for resistance was over.

Lex pulled a tiny syringe from his jacket. Without hesitation, he stepped forwards, before plunging its contents into the young hero's neck.

"It's been fun, Oliver, it really has – but it's time for you to sleep now," he said, watching as the liquid inside the syringe emptied into Oliver's bloodstream. "Say goodbye to Metropolis, my friend – you won't be coming back."

The drug worked quickly. Oliver's eyes fluttered, before closing; moments later he slumped, lifeless, to the ground.

The door opened, and four heavily armed men entered the room, all dressed in black uniforms. Lex and Cohen stepped to the side, allowing Hoskins to take charge.

"What happened?" asked one of the men, glancing down at Oliver's body.

"He became...difficult," said Hoskins, trying to sound authoritative. "We had to sedate him."

"Okay, we'll take it from here," replied the other man, nodding towards his associates. They took hold of Oliver, before beginning to drag him towards the exit.

"And everything is as was agreed?" asked Hoskins.

"Don't worry – everything is as agreed. Queen will be delivered safely – you have my word."

With that the man turned and followed his colleagues out of the room.

"_Sweet dreams, Oliver," _thought Lex to himself. _"Because when you wake up, the nightmare _really_ begins."_

* * *

Well, I did warn you, didn't I? That was one of my longest chapters ever, but you know me - I love an Ollie-Lex confrontation, especially when Lex is at his evil best! Poor Ollie - how much more can the poor guy take? Lost his team, his reputation, his fortune - and now Chloe is in danger. Believe it or not, more trauma and angst ahead, and not just for Ollie...

Did you see Booster? I LOVED it (which is quite something, given Oliver wasn't in it). So looking forward to Dominion next week - I won't spoil it for you, but if you do follow spoilers like me then you'll know it could be amazing!

Thanks for reading, and a special thank you to the reviewers - YOU are the reason why I am still writing! Please do leave a review if you can - you have no idea how much they mean to me!


	21. Chapter 21: Return from the Dead

**Chapter 21: Return from the Dead**

"Why, Clark? Why did he do that?"

"I don't know, Chloe – I only wish that I did. Here, drink this – it will make you feel better."

Clark sat down next to Chloe on the couch, handing her a glass of water as he did so. She took it, only half aware of what she was doing as she raised the glass to her lips to take a sip. Her mind was elsewhere, and she continued to stare blankly into the half distance, completely lost in thought. The last hour had passed in a blur – the shock of Oliver's confession, the uproar in the courtroom, the guilty verdict and the media scrum which had followed it. She had no idea how she'd made it back here, to Oliver's penthouse. Clark, she guessed, had something to do with it; she had some memory of him shielding her from the army of reporters who were waiting for them as they left the courthouse, clearing a path through the crowd as a thousand flash bulbs exploded in their faces. It had been terrible, and perhaps it was some small mercy that she had been too shocked to fully take it all in. The press had scented blood, and, denied an opportunity to photograph Oliver, they had settled for the next best thing – his fiancé. Like hyenas tearing at the flesh of a dying animal, they had shown no restraint in their quest for the best shot of the young woman who just a month earlier they had written up as some sort of fairytale princess, destined to marry the most eligible bachelor in the country. How different it was now. Already the headline writers were sharpening their knives, preparing the words that would confirm the fall of the House of Queen in the first editions of the following day.

_QUEEN ADMITS GUILT: BILLIONAIRE FACES LIFE BEHIND BARS_

_Fiancé flees court: what did she know?_

She would face all of that tomorrow – for now, at least, she could enjoy a few moments of calm. No doubt the reporters were besieging the building on the street below, but they couldn't touch her here, more than thirty floors above the ground. Oliver's security systems would keep them at bay, and of course she had Clark – he wouldn't leave her, not like this. After all the noise of the court the penthouse seemed eerily quiet. She was normally here with Oliver, of course – watching him work out with his weights, gently teasing him as he checked himself out in the mirror, curling up on the couch with him to watch a movie. They had been such happy times - she'd thought they'd never end...

Suddenly she felt sick, a wave of nausea sweeping over her. What if he really wasn't coming back? What if it really was all over? She couldn't even begin to think of how she would survive a future without him. And to think of him, that beautiful, heroic, good man, rotting in some godforsaken prison year after year, all for something he didn't do...

Tears began to well up in her eyes. Suddenly Oliver's face appeared in her mind's eye, the face that had turned towards her in those final few seconds before he had been led from the courtroom. He appeared so lost, so alone, as if nothing made sense anymore...

Her heart broke, just as it had broken first time around. She wanted to reach out to him, to take him in her arms and tell him it would be alright, everything would be alright. But she couldn't; he was gone. Dreams had been replaced with a gnawing feeling of emptiness, and a sense that nothing would ever be the same again.

_Why did he do it? Why did he say he killed Dean?_

Again she came back to that same question, the question she'd asked herself a hundred times over the last hour. It made no sense – no sense at all. He'd been so strong when she'd seen him the day before, confident that he could use his appearance before the court to declare his innocence. He was going to strike back, take the battle to Hoskins and whoever was behind him. So why hadn't it happened? Why when she'd looked into his eyes in that courtroom had she seen resignation, an acceptance of defeat? Something must have happened, something she didn't know about. They'd got to him somehow, forced him into making that confession. It was a realisation that frightened her – who were these people, that they could exercise such power over Oliver even when he was in the apparent safety of a police cell? Her fear quickly gave way to panic; if nowhere was safe, how much danger was he in now? Someone clearly wanted to hurt Oliver, to destroy him – what was left to take from him now, apart from his life? They might murder him and make it look like a suicide. After all, what could be more plausible than a disgraced billionaire facing a life sentence taking his own life? They'd overpower him in his cell, force the noose around his neck before stringing him up to die...

"We've got to get him out of there," she said suddenly, turning and looking at Clark, her eyes blazing intensely. "You've got to save him, Clark – before it's too late!"

Clark was taken aback by the strength of Chloe's words; after such a long period of silence, her impassioned plea seemed to come from out of the blue.

"You have to do it, Clark," she continued, leaping up from the couch before making her way over to the computer which gave her access to Watchtower's systems. "I'll run a trace – we should be able to identify where they're taking him if I hack into the court's network."

Energised, Chloe began working at the computer, her fingers flying across the keyboard with breathtaking speed. It was like the Chloe of old, before the crushing blows of the last few days ripped her world apart. Liberated, she seemed almost possessed: she now had a mission – to save the man she loved.

"Chloe, remember what Oliver said," said Clark gently, joining her at the computer. "Breaking him out of prison is probably what whoever's behind this wants us to do. He'll be a man on the run, never able to clear his name."

"That was yesterday," replied Chloe, not looking up as she continued to type furiously. "They've got to him, Clark – they forced him to confess. He's not safe in there – we have to get him out."

"Chloe, just calm down..."

"Calm down!" repeated Chloe, her eyes flashing with anger as she spun round to face Clark. "He's in danger, Clark – don't you get that? Whoever is doing this can get to him, even behind bars. They're going to kill him, Clark – they're going to kill him, unless we do something to stop it!"

Clark could see the anger and fear in her eyes, the desperation that was driving her on. She could be right, but still he had his doubts; surely the only way to clear Oliver's name was legally, not by making him a fugitive from justice?

At that moment Clark's cell phone rang, breaking the awkward silence.

"Lois, is that you?" he asked, noting the number on the display. He listened for a few seconds, his face darkening.

"What is it?" asked Chloe, looking at Clark as he snapped his cell shut.

"Can you watch TV on this computer?"

"Of course. But..."

"Switch over to it – now."

Mystified, Chloe did as she was told. She looked up at the screen, before letting out a gasp of horror.

Hoskins could be seen addressing a crowd of reporters, but it was not this which had made her stomach churn with fear. Instead it was the sight of the man who stood calmly at his side, a man neither she nor Clark had ever thought they'd see again.

Lex!

" _Mr Luthor will now make a short statement,"_ said Hoskins, glancing across at Lex. _"Please understand that he's not prepared to take questions at this time – after the ordeal he has been through, I'm sure you understand."_

"_Thank you," _began Lex, slowly looking around at the assembled reporters. He spoke quietly, almost nervously, and to the untutored eye he looked like a man who had experienced something terrible. Only those who knew Lex well could see the truth; that this was all highly rehearsed, the product of ruthless calculation.

"_First of all, I want to express my deepest thanks to Mr Hoskins and all those working in the Metropolis Police Department – without their efforts, I would not be standing here today. As you've just heard, I have spent many months locked away in solitary confinement, and I have to tell you, there were many times when I thought that this day would never come. When last year I discovered that Oliver Queen was the Green Arrow I was happy – happy that my old school friend was fighting the crime that has so blighted our city in recent years. However, when I learnt of his true intentions, not to fight crime but to commit it, I confronted him. I hoped to persuade him to change direction, to be the hero the city wanted him to be, but he would have none of it. Instead, as you've heard, he staged my death, before locking me up in the middle of nowhere. I thought I would die in that prison, so when, just twenty-four hours ago, I was rescued and brought back to Metropolis – well, you can imagine how I'm feeling at this moment."_

He paused, turning to look straight at the camera.

"_I want to extend my sincere condolences to the family of Detective Caruso. I never met him, but I know he was a great man – a true hero. In a way I feel responsible for his death – if I'd gone public with what I knew about Oliver earlier then perhaps I could have stopped all this, and maybe he'd still be alive today."_

Again he paused, apparently choked with emotion. As a performance, it was a tour de force; no one watching would have imagined for one second that in fact it was Lex who had ordered the murder of the young detective.

"_I'm just glad that this is all over, and that Oliver is behind bars,"_ he continued, looking around at the reporters who were hanging on his every word. _"He has done some terrible things – why, I'll never know. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take some time for myself – this has been a quite incredible twenty-four hours, and it is going to take me some time to recover."_

As Lex finished speaking there was a storm of questions. He raised the palms of his hands, as if to reiterate he would not be saying any more, before turning and making his way from the room.

"_And so there you have it – the latest twist in this incredible story," _said an unseen reporter, picking up on the end of Lex's impromptu news conference. _"Just over an hour ago Oliver Queen was convicted of the murder of Detective Dean Caruso, and now we have this – the return of none other than Lex Luthor himself. Believed to have perished in a fire at the LuthorCorp building last year, it now transpires that in fact he has been held prisoner by Mr Queen at a secret location all these months, having discovered the billionaire's real identity as the Green Arrow. Mr Luthor..."_

Chloe had heard enough; she reached forward, pressing a button to end the transmission.

There was silence in the room. At last they knew the truth, and, even after all they had been through, it still had the power to shock. Lex was behind it all; the disappearance of the guys, the discrediting of the Green Arrow, Oliver's exposure and ruin – all of it, the work of the man who both Chloe and Clark thought was dead. It seemed so obvious now, it was bizarre they had not thought of it earlier. Who else had the guile, the cunning, the sheer level of pure hatred to pull off something like this? And now, having destroyed his rival, he had decided to reveal himself to the world. Lex Luthor, innocent victim of Oliver Queen, back from the dead – it was grotesque, simply grotesque.

Chloe felt physically sick. She was afraid – more afraid than she'd been since this whole nightmare began.

"Clark..." she said quietly, turning her head to look at him. The anger of moments earlier was gone; now there was only fear – fear that they might already be too late. "Clark, you..."

"Get a fix on Oliver's location," interrupted Clark, his features fixed in a look of grim determination. He understood everything now – and he knew what he had to do.

"I'll save him, Chloe," he continued. "I promise you – I'll save him."

* * *

Clark to the rescue! Well, maybe... but you know it's not going to be that simple, don't you? Another big twist coming in the next chapter, and one which means all sorts of danger for all our favourite heroes!

Dominion - what can I say about Dominion? Brilliant - just brilliant! I felt as though I was watching the Smallville I would have made, with lots of drama and tension. Zod was what a villain should be, and Ollie and Clark fighting - amazing! Justin's direction was awesome - now all I need is for someone to see sense and allow him to star in and direct a Green Arrow spin-off! How great that show would have been - how I'm going to survive a future without the Green Arrow I do not know!

Not sure whether I will be able to post a new chapter next week - real life is taking over again. If I don't, I should post the following week - the day after the finale *pauses to cry*

Thanks for reading, and above all reviewing. Please, please do leave feedback if you can - every review makes so much difference to my desire to keep writing!


	22. Chapter 22: A Secret Revealed

**Chapter 22: A Secret Revealed**

"Watchtower, are you sure about this?"

Clark stood at the top of the slope, looking down at the tree he'd just uprooted and placed across the narrow road below. Everything was ready, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something just wasn't right. Less than an hour had passed since Lex's appearance on TV had caused everything to fall into place. They'd been shocked, of course, but then an overwhelming sense of urgency had spurred them into action. Oliver was in danger, and that stark reality had helped them to work at break-neck speed. It hadn't taken Chloe long to track down the location of the truck being used to transport Oliver; the firewall protecting the court's computer network had proved no match for Watchtower's advanced systems. As the pair of them had watched the blinking dot on a monitor a plan had quickly been improvised. Chloe would hack into the truck's GPS system and divert it onto a deserted road, where Clark would block its path with a fallen tree. Brought to a halt, Clark would move in and free Oliver, making his escape before the guards had time to raise the alarm.

It all sounded neat, but as Clark looked to his left, scanning the road for the arrival of the truck, he still felt uneasy. Everything appeared to be going to plan; the tree was in position, and the driver of the truck was dutifully following the directions of his corrupted GPS. But why was there just one truck? Surely a prisoner of Oliver's importance would be heavily guarded, but a scan had revealed only two men were accompanying him on his journey to prison. It didn't make any sense – but there was no time to ask questions now.

"_You should be able to see them any second now."_

Chloe's voice sounded in his earpiece, focused and determined. Despite learning the awful truth about who was behind all this, she appeared more alive than she'd been in days. Driven by her need to save Oliver, she had worked feverishly to get everything in place for this rescue. It was as if all the emotion she had kept pent-up inside had at last found a positive outlet. He only hoped that the plan worked, and that they succeeded in getting Oliver back; the consequences of failure, both for Oliver and for Chloe, didn't bear thinking about.

Clark didn't have any more time to think. As Chloe had predicted, the armoured truck appeared at the end of the narrow road. Clark could see the two guards sitting in the front, apparently arguing; they obviously knew they had taken a wrong turn, but were clueless about what to do about it. The truck moved steadily down the road towards him, slowing as it approached the tree which blocked its path.

"Watchtower, I have the target in sight," said Clark, his body tensing as he prepared to put into action the next phase of the plan.

"_Good luck!"_ said Chloe; it was a simple phrase, but both knew what was hanging on the outcome of the next sixty seconds.

The truck finally came to a halt a few feet from the tree. It was the moment that Clark had been waiting for, and without hesitation he launched himself off from the top of the slope. He landed with a thud on the truck's roof, just as the door on the passenger side began to open. It was exactly what they'd expected. Clark reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a black sphere, about the size of a tennis ball. Clark never thought he'd need one of Oliver's gadgets, but now he was glad of it; with barely a moment's pause, he leaned out and tossed the ball through the open door. There was a cry of surprise, before Clark grabbed hold of the door and slammed it shut.

He waited three seconds. Chloe had assured him that the stun grenade was fast-acting, and, sure enough, when he jumped down on to the ground he found the two men slumped lifeless in their seats, obviously out for the count.

"The guards are neutralised – I'm going for the door," said Clark, knowing that Chloe was listening and was hanging on his every update. He jogged around to the back of the truck, where he was confronted by the reinforced steel doors. Using his x-ray vision, he looked inside; there, clearly, he could see the outline of a man, lying still on the floor of the truck.

He felt relieved; perhaps everything was going to work out okay after all. He took hold of one of the doors and pulled it from its hinges, casting it aside as if it were nothing more than the discarded lid of a tin can.

"Oliver!" he said, staring at the crumpled figure who lay inside the truck. The man didn't move; lying with his back to the open door, he remained motionless on the steel floor.

_They've knocked him out, _thought Clark to himself, dismissing the fleeting feeling of unease he felt as he leapt up into the truck. He took the couple of paces needed to bring him close to the man, reaching down and pulling him onto his back so he could see his face...

Clark froze. All the anxieties, all the fears which had been lurking away in the back of his mind, came flooding back. The truck had been a decoy – and they had fallen for it.

"_Boy Scout, do you read me?"_

Chloe's voice sounded in his earpiece. Clark felt sick; how was he going to tell her they'd been set-up?

"_Clark – Clark, are you there?"_

Again her voice filled his head. He could hear the nervousness in her voice – he knew that she could sense something was wrong...

"_Clark, have you found him? Is he okay?"_

Clark stared down at the face of the unconscious stranger. He had to tell her – he had no choice...

"Chloe, it's not him – it's not Oliver."

* * *

Lex stared at the screen, transfixed. The live feed, although not perfect, gave him a clear view of what was going on in the decoy truck, the tiny camera mounted discretely in one corner providing a sequence of vivid images. He could see Clark clearly, standing over the unconscious body of the man; disappointment was writ large on his face, the realisation that he had been duped hitting him like a hammer blow. As Lex watched he saw Clark's mouth move. He couldn't hear what was being said, but he could guess; Clark was letting Chloe know the bad news, that her little plan to rescue Oliver had just crashed and burned. Normally that would have been cause enough for Lex to celebrate. He always got a kick out of being one step ahead of his enemies, but this time his mind was elsewhere, reflecting on the meaning of those images he'd seen just seconds earlier, images that had changed the game forever...

Clark had ripped the door of the truck from its hinges. He couldn't quite believe it, but there was no doubting what he'd seen – his eyes didn't lie. A steel door, designed to withstand gunfire and grenades, peeled away as if it were nothing more than the skin of an orange.

The conclusion was inescapable, and it was one that made Lex's heart pump a little harder in his chest.

_Clark was one of them – one of Oliver's freaks!_

He recalled words he'd heard whilst he had been locked up at Bateman. They had been spoken by the man who had occupied the cell next to him, words he'd dismissed at the time as the ravings of a lunatic railing against his captors. What was it he'd said? Yes... yes, that was it...

"_You'll pay for his, Queen! I know the truth about you and your friends – I know the truth about Clark Kent!"_

Without hesitation, Lex picked up the phone.

"Hoskins, I need you to do something for me," he began, struggling to keep his excitement in check. "Our friends from Bateman – where are they now, exactly?... Good. I need you to retrieve one of them for me. His name is Schott- Winslow Schott."

* * *

Lex knows about Clark! Told you there would be a twist. If you are wondering about the Schott reference, in "Consequences" Toyman found out the truth about Clark, before he was locked up by Oliver and the gang. I thought it would be nice to have the two great villains of my stories help each other out - wait and see what it all means! (No clues, but I think you can guess that things have just got a whole lot worse for the guys!)

Talking of Schott, I loved that scene in Prophecy where he is organising his team to take out our heroes - that would have made for such an amazing episode! Haven't watched the whole ep yet, mostly just the Ollie bits - I am so scared for next week! I hope we get a happy Chlollie ending, and some Green Arrow action - it has been WAY too long since we saw the suit!

Sorry this has been a short chapter, but it sort of works as a self-contained piece. There almost certainly will be a delay before the next chapter goes up - it is going to be longer, and will feature the return of Ollie (two chapters without our hero is more than enough!). So next time I post Smallville will be over - how I am going to survive without my Ollie fix I do not know!

Thanks for reading, and a special thanks to all you wonderful reviewers. Please, please, do leave some feedback if you can - it makes such a difference, and really encourages me to keep on writing.


	23. Chapter 23: Not Coming Back

**Chapter 23: Not Coming Back**

Lex strode confidently across the hotel lobby, a look of quiet satisfaction on his face. Now that he had revealed himself to the world, he was enjoying his new found freedom to go about his business without fear of being recognised. He'd spent so many weeks cooped up in his secret base that there had been times when he'd felt he'd simply exchanged one prison for another. Now, however, he was free, and ready once more to dominate the city that he felt was rightfully his. Oliver's alter ego had done him a favour in breaking up all the leading crime syndicates over the previous months, so that now there were no obstacles to him establishing control over all the major criminal activity in Metropolis. And all the while, of course, he would pose in public as the wronged victim of Oliver's desire to set himself up as the major player in the Metropolis underworld – just another of the many sweet ironies that made all those months of patient planning so worthwhile.

That was the future, of course. For now he had other priorities, not least those images of Clark tearing that steel door from its hinges. An hour had passed since he'd watched the drama unfold at the decoy truck, but the sight of Clark casting aside a sheet of ten inch thick reinforced metal as if it nothing more than a piece of cardboard was still vivid in his mind. He felt excited, but also slightly uneasy. For years he had had suspicions about his old friend from Smallville, but until now he had never had any hard evidence to back up his feeling that there was something not quite right about the warm hearted farm boy. Those images changed everything – now there could be no doubt that Clark was indeed different, himself one of the freaks that seemed to be concentrated in and around Smallville. More than that, his appearance at the truck made it almost certain that he was connected to Oliver's little band of terrorists. Perhaps he was even one of them, the secret fifth member of the Justice League. If that was the case, he had to be neutralised, just as Chloe Sullivan had to be neutralised. Dealing with Chloe had long been part of his plan – indeed, she was destined to play a leading role in the final act of Oliver's destruction – but he had not bargained on having to deal with Clark, let alone a Clark who seemed to be even stronger than Arthur Curry. That was why speaking to Winslow Schott was so important – he was convinced that the man he had heard ranting up at Bateman in fact held the key to the secrets of Clark Kent.

The hotel doorman held open the door as he approached the exit, smiling and nodding his head deferentially as Lex passed. It was an odd feeling, to be the focus of so much goodwill from people he didn't even know. But he was one of Oliver's "victims," of course – and after the events of the last few days, that generated levels of sympathy he'd previously never experienced.

Exiting the hotel, he stepped towards his limousine parked just a few feet away. He was about to get in, when a familiar voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Lex!"

The voice was urgent, insistent – the voice of someone in trouble. His heart beating a little harder in his chest, Lex turned, to find himself face to face with the man who now fascinated him more than any other.

"Clark – it's good to see you."

Lex spoke calmly, not for the first time asserting the iron control over his emotions that had served him so well in the past. He knew that he was tantalisingly close to discovering the truth about his old friend, but he was determined to give nothing away. He couldn't afford to take any risks, not now that he was so close to achieving what he'd dreamt of for so long; Clark was dangerous, and it was vital that he give no hint that he knew about his hidden abilities.

"Where are they, Lex?" demanded Clark, advancing on Lex. He appeared agitated, almost desperate; it was all too clear that after his failure to find Oliver this was very much a last resort.

"Who?" asked Lex, his apparent innocence fooling no one. "You'll need to be more specific, Clark – maybe you haven't heard, but I've been away for a few months."

"Arthur Curry, Bart Allen, Victor Stone – where are they, Lex? What have you done with them?" asked Clark, unable to hide the anger and frustration in his voice. Sensing danger, two of Lex's bodyguards stepped forward, reaching for their guns. Lex waved them away; he knew that Clark wouldn't harm him, and he didn't what was fast turning into an entertaining confrontation cut short by an over-zealous goon.

"Arthur Curry...Bart Allen...No, can't say I recognise those names," said Lex, feigning ignorance. "Friends of yours, are they?"

"Stop playing games, Lex. I know you've got them – now where are they?"

"Clark, honestly, I don't know what you're talking about. I know that this business with Oliver must be a shock to you – it's come as a shock to all of us, I know. But throwing these wild accusations around – it won't do any good, believe me."

Lex paused, furrowing his brow in a display of fellow feeling. He reached out and gently patted Clark's arm – a public gesture of reassurance, born of a breathtaking confidence that he was complete master of events.

"Go home, Clark. Go home and look after Chloe - she needs you. To find out the man of your dreams is a cold blooded killer – that's tough, really tough. And to have to face a future without him – well, I can't begin to imagine what she's going through right now."

To an onlooker Lex appeared a model of compassion and understanding, his words matched by his earnest expression. But as he spoke his words of sympathy his eyes were laughing, laughing at the helplessness of the young man who now stood before him. What could Clark do? Sure, he knew the truth, but no-one would believe him – the evidence against Oliver was overwhelming, his guilt confirmed by his own confession. He could make as many wild accusations about Oliver's freak show friends as he wanted – there was not a shred of evidence to connect him to the disappearance of any of the members of the Justice League. He could choose to attack him, of course – try to beat the information out of him. But he wouldn't – that wasn't Clark's style. His idiotic sense of morality held him back – and it would ultimately be his undoing.

"I know you're behind this, Lex," said Clark, obviously struggling to escape from a situation which offered him no easy way out. "I know you framed Oliver."

"Think what you like, Clark – it doesn't really matter anymore. Oliver's gone – he won't be coming back."

"What do you mean? Where is he, Lex?"

"I don't know, Clark – really, I don't. All I know is that the Government has a way of dealing with people like Oliver – people who threaten our nation's security. Have you heard of rendition? Those secret facilities scattered around the globe don't exist for nothing, you know."

Lex paused, savouring the impact that his latest revelation was having on his old friend. Clark seemed lost for words, the color draining from his cheeks as his mind struggled to take in what it had just heard. There had been no need to spell it out – Lex had said just enough to make it clear what had happened. Oliver was to be the victim of rendition, spirited away and taken to a top secret facility located in some anonymous third country. There he would have no rights, no access to a lawyer, no hope of release – instead he would be at the mercy of his jailers, jailers who believed him to be a dangerous killer, a man who had murdered an innocent cop. It was a fate that appealed to Lex's sense of symmetry, to see locked up the man who had imprisoned him for all those long months at Bateman. There would be a difference, of course – what awaited Oliver would be a hundred times worse than anything he had experienced during his time as a guest of Queen Industries.

"Lex – please - stop this," whispered Clark, knowing as he spoke that his words were pointless; Oliver's fate was sealed.

"Stop this?" repeated Lex, his tone noticeably harsher. "Why would I want to stop this, Clark? Oliver is getting what he deserves – at last, justice is being done."

He then turned, before stepping towards his car. Getting in, he paused as he took hold of the handle to close the door.

"Go home, Clark," he said calmly. "It's over – you can't do anything to help him now."

With that he slammed the door, before indicating to his chauffeur to drive on. The car began to pull away, leaving Clark standing motionless on the sidewalk, seemingly at a loss.

"_Goodbye, Clark," _he thought to himself. _"I've a feeling we will be meeting again very soon – and in very different circumstances."_

* * *

"On your feet."

Oliver heard the words, but they barely registered. He'd started to come to just minutes earlier, the jolt of the truck coming to a halt at last rousing him from his drug induced slumber. Nestling somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness, he didn't want to wake up; muddled and disorientated as he was, he knew instinctively that there was safety in sleep, a refuge from the nightmare that had overtaken him. Lex's face kept appearing in his head, taunting him, laughing at him. Was this real, or was he trapped in some terrifying dream? He didn't know – all he knew was that his whole body ached, muscles abused by hours of torture screaming out for relief. He just wanted it all to end, for this nightmare to at last be over...

"I said, on your feet!"

The voice was more insistent this time. He felt hands grabbing him, lifting him to his feet...

Suddenly he was blinded by a piercing light. Unable to lift his hands to shield his eyes, he squinted, trying to make out what was happening. The hood that had been placed over his head had been removed, and as he adjusted to the harsh glare of the natural light which poured through the open doors of the truck, he could at last see his captors. There were three of them, stony-faced individuals dressed in dark uniforms. Whether they were working for the government or Lex he couldn't tell, and nor was he given a chance to ask, as, without a word, they pushed him forwards towards the doors.

Outside, Oliver's feelings of unease quickly grew. His head was clearing faster now, the combination of physical activity and fresh air serving to reawaken his senses. He'd expected to find himself in a prison compound, but instead he was confronted by a jet, the roar of its engines a sign that it was about to take off.

"What is this? Where are you taking me?" he asked weakly, registering as he spoke that the gag that had been stuffed in his mouth by Lex had been removed.

No one answered. Instead, one of the men walked over to another uniformed figure who was standing by the steps which led to the jet's door.

"Just one?" he asked. "I thought there were two more for this flight?"

"Last minute change of plan," replied the guard, pulling a piece of paper from his pocket and handing it to the other man. "It's all written down there – this guy Schott has been taken away for further questioning."

_Schott..._

Had he heard that right? Surely they couldn't be referring to Winslow, could they? But he was being held at Bateman, and if Lex had been freed...

"This all seems in order," said the man, perusing the piece of paper he had just been handed. "Get him on board – sooner we can get in the air the better."

The other man turned and nodded towards his associates, one of whom stood each side of Oliver. They grabbed him by the arms, before beginning to march him towards the plane. Instinctively Oliver began to struggle, but he was able to offer little more than token resistance as he was dragged up the steps to the aircraft's entrance.

The sight that greeted him inside was like nothing that he had ever seen before. He found himself in a cargo hold, although it looked more like something out of a science fiction movie. Lined up along each side of the hold were rows of steel capsules, each about the size of a man. The dimensions were no accident, as almost immediately Oliver understood their function. Ahead of him, directly opposite the door through which he had just entered, stood one of the pods, a small glass porthole located at head height. To his horror, Oliver could see that there was a man inside, his head lolling lifelessly forwards onto his chest.

This was a prison flight, that much was clear – a prison flight for criminals so dangerous it was thought necessary to seal them up in high-tech cocoons before shipping them off to who knew where. Who were these people, that they had resources like this at their disposal? And where on earth were they taking him?

"No...please, you don't understand," protested Oliver, unable to conceal his rising sense of panic. "I'm innocent! I've been set-up – please, you have to believe me!"

His captors did not respond. Instead they turned to the right, dragging him down the length of the cabin to where the door of a capsule stood open. There one of the men began to remove the shackles from Oliver's wrists and ankles. Sensing that this would be his last opportunity to escape, Oliver summoned up his last reserves of strength for one final bid for freedom. He tried to struggle free, but the other guard grabbed him by the neck and slammed him against the back wall of the pod. Straps swiftly secured him in place, so that within seconds his last glimmer of hope was extinguished.

Confident their prisoner was secure, the guards moved away. Breathing heavily, Oliver tested his bonds, knowing as did so that it was pointless; even if there was some give in the thick leather belts that held him in place, he did not have the strength to take advantage of it.

"Well, well, well – if it isn't the Green Arrow himself, all tied up and nowhere to go."

Oliver looked up. The door to the pod opposite was open, and inside he could see a man, restrained as he was.

"You don't remember me, do you?" asked the man, a huge grin on his face. He leered at Oliver, his eyes flashing with excitement at the sight of the young billionaire tied up just feet from where he stood. "Why would you – I'm just another low-life you locked up at Bateman, back in the days when you were the big, hot-shot he-ro. Not so tough now, are you, Mr Green Arrow man."

Oliver did not reply; there was a hint of madness in the eyes that stared across at him, a malevolence to his words that sent a chill down his spine...

"All your old friends from Bateman are waiting for you, leather boy," continued the man, savouring his moment. "All the men you put away – they're all waiting for you. You're a dead man, Queen – a dead man!"

"That's enough!" said one of the guards, driving his baton into the gut of the man and causing him to cry out in pain.

"Time to put these ladies to sleep," said the other, appearing in front of Oliver and blocking his line of sight.

"Please, you've got to listen to me..." began Oliver, before his words were cut off by the swoosh of the electronically controlled door sliding shut. He began to struggle against his bonds, but almost immediately he could hear the hiss of gas. Within seconds he could taste it on his tongue, feel its bitterness against his throat.

He tried to fight it, but it was hopeless. Within seconds he could feel his eyelids start to flicker; a few seconds more and his head fell forwards onto his chest.

As he lost consciousness the man's words echoed in his head:

"_They're all waiting for you. You're a dead man, Queen – a dead man!"_

* * *

Ollie heading to a secret prison, filled with hardened crims eager for revenge for what he did to them...

Lex knows Clark's secret, and is determined to find out more from Winslow Schott...

Clark and Chloe have no leads, and are themselves now top of Lex's target list...

As you can see, we've got a load more angst and drama to come!

Sorry there has been a delay in posting a new chapter. For some reason I'm finding it VERY difficult to write at the moment - put it down to a combination of Real Life and fanfic writer's block. Hope you are still reading, and that you are still interested in where this is all heading.

Smallville is over, of course - seems strange to say that, and to think there is no new season to look forward to. Personally, I was not overwhelmed by the finale. It was one for Clark fans, and that's fair enough, and I'm glad Chlollie got a happy ending. However, I was disappointed not to get a little more Green Arrow action - but you know me, I can never get enough of the green guy! Can't believe we won't see Oliver again - so, so sad.

Anyway, thanks for reading. Please, please do leave a review if you can - at the moment, I really do need all the encouragement I can get to keep on writing!


	24. Chapter 24: Induction

**Chapter 24: Induction**

Robert Flynn pulled his coat tight against his body as he trudged wearily across the compound towards the large grey building that was his destination. It did little good; still the ice-cold wind which whistled across the open ground cut through his many layers of clothing, chilling him to the core. Freshly fallen snow crunched dully beneath his feet. When he had first arrived he had found it a reassuring sound, a reminder of a childhood spent playing in the winter snows of New England. Now, however, the muffled crump of his boots making contact with the virgin fall evoked no such memories. It was just another aspect of the terrible monotony of his life in this place, a grey, cheerless existence to match the leaden skies that never seemed to let the sun shine through.

Two years he'd been here – two years in charge of one of the country's most top secret facilities. At the time of his appointment he'd felt excited to be assigned a job of such immense importance. Being made warden of only the second Nemesis operation was a great privilege, and for a few months he'd enjoyed his new position. He'd believed in the project – he still did – and it had been rewarding to feel he was making a difference. For decades the criminals had had it all their own way, using smart lawyers to evade justice by tying up the system with endless appeals to their "rights." Time and again he'd watched as killers, rapists and mobsters had walked free, pissing on a system which let them loose to heap more misery and violence on the weak and the innocent. They had laughed at the courts and the police, believing they were invulnerable. The Nemesis project had changed all that. It took the most dangerous criminals and removed them from circulation, spiriting them half way round the world to facilities where any appeal to so called rights was met with a baton to the gut. Sure it was unconstitutional, but the highest levels of secrecy meant that the liberal elites back home were kept in the dark. What happened in the Nemesis project was known to only a select few – even the President didn't know what was really going on. For Flynn that hadn't mattered. What mattered was that Nemesis worked – it took the country's most violent and dangerous men and put them in a place where they couldn't hurt anyone again. If the rights of a few had to be sacrificed for the good of the many, well – that was a price well worth paying.

Flynn still believed in Nemesis, but after two years he'd had enough. Locating the facility in North Korea had been a stroke of genius, the last place that any nosy reporter would think of looking for illicit government activity. A secret deal with the North Korean regime had paved the way for Nemesis 2 to open in the north of the country, about thirty miles from the Chinese border. It was a grim place, as it was meant to be, but the monotony of life thousands of miles from home had taken its toll. It wasn't just the weather and the isolation that had worn him down, but also the company he had been forced to keep. Most of the men under his command were little more than uniformed thugs, little different from the men who they guarded. He had nothing in common with them, leaving him to eke out a solitary existence in his quarters, with only his books and music to help him while away the long, boring hours. He had had enough, that was for sure – enough of the brutality, the greyness, the loneliness. He had only one more month to serve before he was at last to be relieved, and already he was counting down the days.

Reaching the door to the building, he was relieved to step inside and escape from the bitter wind. Warm air greeted him, the heating system of the facility proving mercifully reliable in the worst of winters. He struggled to remove his gloves and coat, just as a thick set man dressed in a black uniform stepped forward to meet him.

"They're all lined up in the reception hall, sir," he said, cursorily saluting. "Twenty-four in total – one less than we were expecting."

"Thank you, Galton," replied Flynn coldly. He didn't like his deputy, and he knew that his feelings were reciprocated. Galton represented everything he'd come to hate about Nemesis 2. Responsible for the day to day operation of the facility and for security, he'd established a brutal reign of terror over the prison. A bully and a sadist, he took delight in torturing and humiliating anyone who crossed him. At the same time Flynn was convinced that he was in league with some of the more notorious inmates, offering them privileges in return for their help in maintaining order inside the cells. He'd tried to have him dismissed, but he had been unable to make the charge of corruption stick; it hadn't helped that most of the guards saw Galton as their leader, and had closed ranks to protect him. That had been three months ago, and ever since they had maintained an uneasy truce. Flynn had retreated to his quarters, content to count down the days until he was relieved; Galton was a problem that his successor could sort out.

Flynn straightened his tie, before stepping forwards towards a door which led to the main reception hall. He hesitated, glancing across at Galton.

"And he's here?"

"He's here," confirmed the other man, his usual scowl momentarily morphing into a twisted grin. "On the left, at the far end – I guessed you'd want to speak to him."

Even half way around the world, the sensation surrounding the fall of Oliver Queen had grabbed the attention of the guards and inmates of Nemesis 2. Only the guards had access to TV and the internet, but it hadn't taken long for news of the unmasking of the Green Arrow to circulate amongst the prisoners. It was impossible to keep a secret at Nemesis, so when twenty-four hours earlier he'd received the call telling him that Queen was to become its newest inmate Flynn had known it would only be a matter of time before the news leaked out. He hadn't been disappointed; already the place was buzzing with excitement and expectation, both guards and prisoners eager to see in the flesh the man who for so long had been the scourge of the criminal underworld. For Flynn, however, Queen's arrival was a complication he could do without. He'd already been forced to accept the prisoners that Queen himself had locked up over the last few months. The discovery of the Green Arrow's private prison at Bateman had given the authorities a major headache; dumping the dregs of Metropolis at Nemesis probably made sense to the suits back home, but it had created major problems for a facility that was already filled to capacity. Now he had to look after Queen as well, a man the prisoners of Nemesis would gladly tear limb from limb if they had the chance. Keeping a celebrity prisoner secure and safe was a challenge he could well do without, but his objections had been overruled. And so he was here, the heroic vigilante turned cop killer. There was nothing Flynn could do about it, and despite his resentment at having to look after a man whose presence had the potential to destabilise the whole facility, he had to confess to a degree of curiosity. It wasn't everyday you got to meet a celebrity in the flesh, especially not one whose notoriety had made him a household name around the world.

Flynn opened the door, stepping into the reception hall beyond. There, before him, he found lined up the twenty four men whose crimes had condemned them to this godforsaken facility. Each was dressed in a standard issue red jumpsuit. Their hands and feet were shackled, and to guarantee that order was maintained a guard stood a couple of feet behind each man, ready to step forward and subdue the prisoner if required. To add to their sense of subjugation, every man was hooded. It was standard practice at Nemesis, a way of unsettling new arrivals and adding to their sense of unease and uncertainty. Every effort was made to make the first few hours at Nemesis as terrifying as possible for new prisoners, and this batch was to be no different; after Flynn had given his "welcome," Galton and his men would set to work on them, letting them know the brutal reality of their new existence. Flynn didn't know everything about the so-called induction process, but he knew enough; he was glad of the opportunity to retreat to his quarters when his part in the arrivals procedure was done.

He glanced down the row to where he knew Oliver Queen was standing. He saw a tall, lean figure, standing upright, almost defiant; Flynn could sense that under the hood he was listening intently, alert to every movement, every possible danger. What must be going through his mind? A man who had it all, to be reduced to this... How must that feel? Flynn couldn't even begin to imagine. But he looked strong, despite everything; he would need to be, if he was to survive the days and weeks that lay ahead...

He was aware of Galton standing beside him, impatient to begin his part of the induction process. Flynn cleared his throat, preparing to give a speech he must have delivered twenty or thirty times over the previous two years.

"Welcome to Nemesis 2," he began, his voice echoing against the walls of the hall. Two dozen hooded heads instantly turned in his direction, heads filled with fears, uncertainty, perhaps even a little hope. He smiled grimly to himself. One thing was certain; after what he was about to say, what hopes these men had would almost certainly be snuffed out for good.

"You are here because you have betrayed your country," he continued, his voice grave and ominous. "You have murdered, raped, and extorted with impunity, believing you were above the law. You thought you were untouchable, that you could shelter behind a system that was meant to protect the innocent, not shelter the wicked. You were wrong. Our country has had enough of your violence, your depravity, your evil – it has cast you out, never to return. This place is your home now – you will never leave here, except in the box that carries your corpse to an unmarked grave. Our security systems are amongst the best in the world, so escape is impossible – if you try, you will fail. Accept that, accept that this place is all that is left for you, and you will live – reject it, and I promise you, you _will_ die."

He paused, allowing the unrelenting certainty of his words to hang like a sword of Damocles in the air.

"You have no rights at Nemesis. You have no right to an attorney, no right to contact your families, no right of appeal. You forfeited your rights when you destroyed the lives of your innocent victims. We will feed you, clothe you, keep you alive – but that is all. You will soon adjust to our ways, I promise you, but understand this. Any disobedience, any attempt to cause trouble, and you will be punished – punished in ways you cannot even begin to imagine. Do not test us on this – others have tried, and they have lived to regret it."

"No one knows you are here. There will be no rescues, no appeals, no parole. You are quite alone. You will never leave Nemesis. Some of you will live for months, some years, a few even decades – but however long it takes, we will never let you go. You have reached the end of the line – and justice will now wreak its revenge for all the lives you have ruined, all the misery you have caused. Accept your punishment – and know that however terrible it may seem, it is nothing compared to what you yourselves have done in the lives you have left behind."

His speech over, Flynn nodded to Galton. The other man stepped forward, ordering the prisoners to turn to the left. Accompanied by their guards, they began to shuffle forwards towards an exit, their heads bowed in sullen acquiescence of the fact that, for now at least, they had to comply with their new masters. Flynn was under no illusions; he knew that despite his words of warning, many of the men who were now being led away would still try to escape in the coming weeks and months. Only when they had experienced the reality of the Nemesis system and how it dealt with those who refused to conform would they come to understand the truth of his words. Eventually they would come to obey, to accept that this really was the all that was left to them; Nemesis always won in the end, conquering even the most defiant of spirits.

His eyes turned to Oliver, who was now directly in front of him.

"Stop that man," he ordered, stepping forwards. The guard accompanying Oliver brought him to a halt, before ordering him to turn to face the warden. Flynn studied the new arrival for a moment. Over six feet tall, he appeared lean and muscular, the product, Flynn was sure, of many hours of training. What was most striking, however, was the young man's bearing. He wasn't like the others; far from being bent over and seemingly compliant, he stood erect, as if daring his new surroundings to do their worst.

"Take off his hood," he ordered.

Galton stepped forward and pulled it away. Oliver squinted, his eyes adjusting to the harsh glare of the lights before they fell upon Flynn, who stood just a couple of feet in front of him. The two men stared at each other in silence for a moment, trying to size up the other's intentions.

"So you're Oliver Queen," said Flynn at last. "It's not often we get to welcome at celebrity."

"Where is this place? Where am I?" demanded Oliver, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"Shut your mouth, boy!" hissed Galton, driving his baton hard into Oliver's gut and causing him to double over in pain. "Did anyone give you permission to speak? Did they, boy? Did they?"

Galton was screaming just inches from Oliver's ear. Flynn winced; he hated Galton's needless displays of brutality, which were more about satisfying his own need for control than about maintaining discipline amongst the inmates.

"That's enough, Mr Galton," he said. Reluctantly, Galton withdrew. Flynn sensed his disappointment, his contempt for what he perceived as Flynn's weakness. For once it didn't bother him; he was more interested in the man who stood before him, slowly recovering from Galton's gratuitous assault.

"You're a real disappointment to me, Mr Queen," he continued. "When I first read about the Green Arrow I was excited. I believed in you – we all did. We thought that you were one of us, one of the good guys, striking back at those who thought the law couldn't touch them. To find out the truth, that you're no better than all the other low-life scum wrecking our nation – shocking, truly shocking. A man of wealth, of privilege, killing a cop – and for what? You didn't need the money. Did you do it for the thrill, is that it? Did it give you a kick to cut down an innocent man in the prime of his life?"

"I didn't do it," replied Oliver quietly, struggling to contain the frustration he felt inside at having to hear once more the lies that had trapped him repeated as fact. "This is all a terrible mistake. Lex Luthor should be standing here, not me – he's the one who set me up, he's the one responsible for Dean's murder."

"Another innocent man arrives at Nemesis," sneered Galton ironically. "If I had a dollar for every time some piece of shit like you said that he didn't do it, I'd be sunning myself on some Caribbean beach, not stuck in this hole. Hey, come to think of it, didn't I read that you were down in the Caribbean just before you murdered that cop? You'd better hold on to that memory, pretty boy, cos that's the last time you're ever gonna see the sun, I promise you."

Oliver wasn't listening. Instead he was staring at Flynn, studying his face intently. There was something about the way the warden looked at him, something which said that maybe he might be prepared to listen...

"Please believe me, warden – I did not kill Dean Caruso," he said, hoping he could build on the doubt he saw in the man's eyes. "This is all part of Luthor's plan to destroy me. Think about it – like you said, why would I kill Dean? I had nothing to gain. The videos you've seen, the witnesses who have spoken out against me – it's all lies. You've got to help me, before it's too late. Please, I'm begging you – there are lives at stake."

"How much longer do we have to listen to this crap?" asked Galton impatiently. "Warden, I need to get pretty boy processed before lock down – we need to move."

Flynn hesitated. Oliver could see the doubt in his eyes, a desire to know more...

"Well?" demanded Galton.

"Please – you've got to believe me," said Oliver, sensing that if he didn't break through now, the opportunity would be lost.

There was silence for a few seconds – an agonising silence, when Oliver dared to hope that his fortunes might at last be about to turn...

"Nice try, Mr Queen," said Flynn finally. "But like Mr Galton says, everyone's an innocent man when they arrive at Nemesis."

He nodded to Galton. The interview over, a shove to the back propelled Oliver forwards and towards the exit. As he was marched away he turned his head, desperate to make one final plea to the man who just for a second he thought might offer him some chance of salvation.

"Please, call my fiancée – call Chloe Sullivan in Metropolis," he shouted. "She's in danger – please, you've got to warn her, before it's too late."

Flynn did not respond, but instead turned away and began walking towards the door through which he had entered. A couple of seconds later and Oliver found himself standing at the exit to the hall. Galton punched an entry code into a key pad, and the door slid open. Oliver was then pushed through, the door sliding shut behind him.

He stood for a moment, taking in his new surroundings. Suddenly he felt a hand grab his hair, before his head was yanked backwards.

"Talking's over, pretty boy," whispered Galton, his mouth just an inch or so from Oliver's ear. "You're mine now – and have I got plans for you!"

* * *

Oliver tried to take in as much as possible of his surroundings as he was marched down yet another anonymous corridor. The shackles which had been attached to his wrists and ankles had been removed, presumably to allow for greater speed of movement. Their disappearance did not, however, offer him any chance of escape; two armed guards walked to either side of him, and ahead Galton led the way. The corridors themselves offered few clues as to his location, but still his eyes and ears were everywhere, storing away the tiniest and most insignificant pieces of information in the hope that maybe at some point in the future they might prove useful.

Despite everything, he felt stronger than he had done in days. He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious for during the flight, but he'd come to in time to collect his thoughts and focus clearly on what he had to do to survive the nightmare that had overtaken him. And that had to be the priority now – survival. Luthor's plan had worked to such devastating effect there was nothing he could do in the short term to help his friends, or protect Chloe. All he could do was focus on overcoming whatever new horrors might lie ahead, and, given what he'd heard and seen of this place so far, he had no doubt that the coming hours and days would test him as never before. He just had to try and stay alive, and hope – hope that the guys could hang on, and that Clark and Chloe could figure out what was going on, before they too fell into Lex's clutches. It was a desperate situation – more desperate then he had ever faced in his entire life – but somehow he was finding the strength, the will, to hang on. He couldn't believe that this really was, as the warden had described it, the end of the line. Lex _couldn't _win – it just wasn't possible. Somehow he would find a way through this; all he had to do was hang on, and pray that sooner or later his luck must finally turn...

Ahead of him Galton came to halt. Again he punched an access code into a key pad, before a door to the left slid open. Oliver's guards took him by the arms, and led him inside.

The room beyond was like an enormous shower room, tiles covering the walls right up to the ceiling. A drain was located in the center of the grey concrete floor, adding to the impression that this was some sort of washing area. However, there were no shower heads; instead a thick hose lay curled up to the right of the entrance.

Oliver tensed. He sensed that something was about to happen, something bad...

One of the guards pushed him forwards. He stumbled, before turning to face the three men who now stood by the door, leering in expectation of what was to come.

"Strip."

Oliver stared at Galton, for a split second not fully registering the order he had just been given.

"I said, strip!"

This time there could be no room for doubt. Oliver did not move, knowing full well that to comply would be to hasten the onset of whatever humiliation Galton had in store for him.

Galton nodded to one of his men. The guard took a couple of steps towards Oliver, before without warning he rammed his baton hard into the young hero's gut. Oliver cried out in pain, just as another skilfully aimed blow to his back sent him crashing to his knees.

Galton stepped forward, once again grabbing Oliver by the hair and pulling his head back so that he could look his victim in the eye.

"When I give you an order, boy, you obey!" he hissed, his eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and excitement. "Now take off your clothes, or so help me I will break every bone in your body!"

Oliver knew he had no choice. Wincing from the blows he had just received, he struggled awkwardly to his feet. He then proceeded to remove the jumpsuit that he'd worn since being taken into custody, discarding it onto the floor.

"And the rest," sneered Galton.

Slowly, Oliver pulled off his black t-shirt. He hesitated before removing his boxers, hoping that his captors would leave him some shred of dignity; Galton, however, was in no mood to compromise.

"The boxers too, boy," he said. "No need to be shy – there's nothing you got that we haven't seen a hundred times before!"

Oliver gritted his teeth, but did as he was told.

"Well, well, well – ain't you a sight!" said Galton, staring at the naked man who now stood before him. He began to walk slowly around Oliver, taking his time to look him up and down. Oliver understood what was going on; it was a classic tactic, designed to demean a prisoner, rob him of his sense of pride, of self-respect. He might have understood it, but that didn't make it any easier to bear; he could feel himself blushing with embarrassment as his tormentor circled him like a predator preparing to move in for the kill.

"I gotta tell you, boy, I'm impressed," said Galton. "What do you think, guys – pretty ripped, yeah? Those muscles sure must impress the ladies – although I'm guessing something else might leave them a little, well, disappointed."

The two guards laughed, appreciating Galton's twisted sense of humour.

Galton sniffed, and then sniffed again; the action was exaggerated, a prelude for what was to come...

"You might be a pretty boy, Queen, but you know something? You stink," he said, making a point of moving close to Oliver and sniffing again. "We haven't got any of those fancy scents you might be used to, but I'm sure we can find a way of freshening you up. What do you think, boys? Shall we make our celeb here smell a bit sweeter?"

He walked over to the door and picked up the hose. Taking it in both hands, he pointed the nozzle in Oliver's direction. Oliver knew what was going to happen, and braced himself for the inevitable.

"Let him have it, boys!" said Galton. Oliver just had time to see one of the guards reach for a small wheel mounted on the wall, before a jet of ice cold water hit him full force in the chest. The impact was like a hammer blow, the high pressure jet sending him flying across the room and into the far wall. He slumped to the ground, curling himself up into a ball to try to shield himself from the power of the water. Galton, however, was unrelenting; he moved forwards, training the hose on Oliver and sending him skidding across the floor.

"Do you like that, boy? Do you? Do you like it, you worthless sack of shit!"

Oliver did reply to Galton's taunts. Instead he tried to concentrate on protecting himself from the water cannon as best he could. It wasn't easy; every time he managed to get himself in a position which offered some relief the guards would take hold of him and drag him back to center of the room, so Galton could start all over again. The attack lasted for five minutes, but to Oliver it seemed much longer. When at last the jet of water was turned off he was left lying splayed out on the floor, naked and humiliated. Bruised and shaking with the cold, he lay still for a moment, breathing hard as he tried to recover his strength.

He had survived his first test – but what now?

"Feel better after that, Queen?" asked Galton, standing over his victim. "Here, dry yourself off – we don't want you to catch a chill, now do we?"

He threw a towel on Oliver's face. Oliver said nothing, but started to towel himself dry – for once, Galton's advice made a lot of sense.

A minute or so later and once again Oliver found himself standing in the center of the room, watched over by his three captors. His features fixed with grim determination, he tried to steal himself for whatever Galton next had in store.

"Well, I guess it's time we showed you to your new home," said Galton, walking over to the corner of the room and picking up a large plastic bag. "But we can't have you meeting your new friends like that, naked as the day you were born – just wouldn't be right, now would it, boys? So we've got a little treat for you, Mr hot-shot hero – a little something to remind you of home."

He reached into the bag. Oliver saw a flash of green, before the other man threw its contents at his feet.

Oliver recognised it immediately.

_His costume!_

He stared at it for a moment, before looking up at Galton. What did this mean? What was this sick bastard playing at now?

"Well, what are you waiting for?" asked Galton. "It's your costume, pretty boy – put it on."

Immediately Oliver understood. He was already a marked man, but Galton wanted more than that – he wanted every prisoner to know exactly who he was, from the moment he set foot in those cells. Not for him the anonymity of a prison uniform; instead he was to be forced to wear the leathers of his alter ego, the very costume that he had worn when he had put many of the men he was about to meet behind bars. It was sick, but terrifyingly effective – by forcing Oliver to wear his costume, Galton was in effect painting a target on his back.

"I said, put it on!" demanded Galton viciously; he was impatient to see his twisted idea fulfilled.

Slowly, Oliver did as he was told. A strange feeling came over him as first he slipped into his leather pants, before donning his tunic. How many times had he suited up in the last year? Dozens – maybe more than a hundred times. And every time the suit had empowered him, made him feel stronger, as if he could take on the world. How different it was now. Now the suit was like salt being rubbed into an open wound; not just a reminder of his fall from grace, but an open invitation for every low-life and murderer to take him on, even kill him. A torment worthy of Lex himself – his only solace was that Luthor wasn't there to see it.

"And so here he is, the Green Arrow himself!" declared Galton sarcastically, watching as Oliver zipped up his tunic. Again he stepped forward and began to circle his captive, savouring the young hero's obvious discomfort.

"You sure look good in that costume – don't he look good, boys?" he continued, coming to halt just behind Oliver. "All those muscles and tight leather – I think I'm in love!"

The other men laughed, sharing in Galton's delight in mocking his prey.

"I wonder what your new friends will make of you, all dressed up like a tough guy hero," said Galton, leaning in close so that he was able to whisper into Oliver's ear. "You know what I think, boy? I think you look so pretty they're not gonna know whether to kiss you, or kill you. Hell, who knows – maybe they'll do both!"

Oliver swallowed hard, trying to stay focused. Inside he felt physically sick; he knew that Galton was messing with his head, but it was still difficult to take. There was something about the way the man spoke, a callous, calculating sadism, that made his words truly chilling. The knot of anxiety tightened in his gut, and for the first time since his arrival he realised he felt genuinely afraid.

"So, shall we show you to your new home, rich boy?"

Slade stepped away from Oliver, moving over to a door opposite the one they had entered through. As he punched a security code into a keypad Oliver felt his arms being forced behind his back, as one of the other guards snapped a pair of cuffs around his wrists.

"You have no idea how excited your new friends are to meet you," said Galton, a wide grin on his face. "They just can't wait to make you feel right at home!"

The door slid open, and Galton stepped through. Oliver was forced to follow, a shove to the back propelling him forwards.

He came to halt just the other side of the door. Galton blocked his way, looking upwards. Oliver followed his gaze, his breath catching in his throat at the sight which met his eyes. A vast cavernous hall stretched away in front of them, lined either side by row upon row of cells. There were seven floors in total, access walkways separating the bars of the cell doors from the large open area which stretched the entire length of the hall and which ran from floor level right up to the roof high above them. Bridges crossed the void at intervals along the length of the hall, giving access from one side of the cell block to another. It was everyone's idea of what the inside of a prison should look like, but on a massive scale.

Galton stepped forward.

"Wake up ladies, he's here!"

The man's voice boomed out, filling the entire hall as it echoed against the iron and stone. Almost immediately noises could be heard, quiet at first, but quickly building. Figures appeared at the bars of the cells, straining to catch a glimpse of the man whose arrival they had awaited with such anticipation. Oliver could see the faces of some, filled with snarling hatred as they began to shout and scream, hammering against the bars of their cells with whatever they could find.

In the space of a few seconds the noise became almost unbearable, a deafening cacophony of beaten iron and the roar of hundreds of men, each whipped up into a frenzy of rage. Again Oliver was pushed forwards, following behind Galton and forced to run the gauntlet of rage as they began the long walk down the entire length of the hall. It must have taken the best part of two minutes to complete the journey, two of the most unnerving minutes of Oliver's life. Throughout, Oliver tried to keep his eyes fixed on Galton's back, not wishing to catch the eye of any of the caged animals who were baying for his blood just a few feet away to his right and left. Occasionally he caught sight of some movement in the corner of his eye, as one of the inmates tried to lunge at him through the bars of their cell; mercifully, the path that Galton trod kept him just out of reach. The level of noise was such that only occasionally was he able to decipher any particular word or phrase from the blizzard of obscenities and abuse that was being poured out in his direction. It was just as well, as the words he did catch were chilling, threats of such ferocity they made his blood run cold.

He tried to remain impassive, to hide his emotions behind a mask of grim resolution. However, when at last they reached the far end of the hall and passed into a small corridor beyond, he felt a wave of relief sweep over him. The experience had shaken him, more than he cared to admit; the reality of his prison had been shown to him, in all its bestial intensity.

"You know something, Queen – I think they like you!" said Galton, glancing over his shoulder as he led the way deeper into the building. "But don't worry – you won't be staying with the ladies in Hall 1. An important prisoner like you gets a cell all to himself!"

A few seconds later and he came to a halt next to a thick iron door. He pulled it open, before standing back and gesturing for Oliver to enter.

"Welcome to you new home, Green Arrow!"

Oliver was pushed inside. As his cuffs were removed, he took in his new surroundings. He was in a tiny, windowless cell, about eight feet long and six feet wide. A bed stood on one side, whilst a wash basin and toilet stood on the other. Everything looked dirty, from the stained mattress to the walls daubed with graffiti. Worst of all, however, was the smell; it was all Oliver could do to stop himself retching from the foul stench which filled the tiny space.

"So how does this compare to that penthouse of yours, Queen?" sneered Galton. "Sorry there's no Jacuzzi, but hey – life's a bitch!"

He stepped out of the tiny cell. Taking hold of the door, he looked back at Oliver.

"Sleep well, pretty boy, because tomorrow is gonna be a big day for you. All those ladies out there are just _dying_ to meet you, and do you know something? I'm guessing they want more than just your autograph – a lot, lot more."

He laughed- a hollow, heartless laugh that seemed to echo in the narrow confines of the cold, dank cell. He then pushed the door closed, slamming it shut with such force that the whole room seemed to shudder under its impact. Oliver listened as the footsteps of his jailers faded down the corridor, until at last there was silence.

He stood for a moment. The terror of the last hour at last over, he was suddenly aware of his body's reaction to what he had endured. He could hear his heart thumping in his chest, and the taste of bile burned his throat; his gut was twisted into a tight knot, and a cold sweat was making his t shirt cling uncomfortably to his back.

He felt relieved – relieved that he had done what he set out to do, and survived his first test. But there was fear also, fear of what tomorrow might bring. The hatred that had poured out from those cells during that long walk was like nothing he had ever experienced. They would kill him if they had the chance, that much was clear; worse still, his hopes of survival rested on Galton and the other jailers, men who seemed more interested in the sport to be had from taunting their famous captive than keeping him safe from an army of potential killers.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, trying to keep in check the wave of panic that he could feel building up inside him. He thought of Chloe, of how just a week earlier the two of them had been together on that sun drenched Caribbean beach, seemingly without a care in the world. Would he ever see her again? He had no idea. All he knew was that he had to keep going, hoping and praying that sooner or later he would get the break he needed to start fighting back. If he didn't, then he was lost.

Suddenly the lights went out, plunging him into darkness.

He was alone – perhaps more alone than he had ever been in his entire life.

* * *

Ollie locked up in a top secret prison, facing sadistic guards and an army of cons out for revenge - I warned you things were going to get worse for our main man, didn't I? You know something, even I'm getting worried where all this is leading...

Ollie's fight to survive is going to be the focus now, alternating with Lex's battle with Clark and Chloe. Expect lots of twists along the way, and plenty more danger and angst for our heroes - you wouldn't want it any other way, would you?

The Green Arrow goes to prison storyline was to have been the basis for a movie, but it looks like it will never get made (and without Justin, that might be just as well - he just IS Green Arrow, period). So I thought I'd have a go with my version, and see where it leads us.

Hope you enjoyed this chapter - sorry to keep you waiting, but I hope the length of this installment is some compensation. Thanks so much for reading - now the show is over, I can't help wonder how long people are going to want to keep reading what I produce. Please, please leave some feedback if you can - you know how much reviews mean to me, and they really do make all the hours spent writing seem worthwhile.


	25. Chapter 25 First Blood

**Chapter 25: First Blood**

Oliver lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The light above him had flickered into life about fifteen minutes earlier, accompanied by the piercing sound of a klaxon. Whilst the corridor outside his cell remained silent, he knew that his opportunity for rest was fast coming to an end; his first full day at Nemesis was about to begin.

He'd not slept well. Initially exhaustion had overwhelmed him, plunging him into the welcome oblivion of sleep. However, he'd woken after only three or four hours, his anxieties and fears reasserting themselves and forcing him back to consciousness. Try as he might, he had been unable to go back to sleep again, and so for hours he'd just lain on his bed, turning the events of the previous hours and days over and over in his head. It still didn't quite seem real, that his fortunes could have turned with such devastating speed. Just over a week earlier and he'd been in the Caribbean, looking forward to a life to be spent with a woman he loved more than anything else in the world. Everything had been perfect, like something from a fairytale. How different the world looked now. He'd lost his fortune, his reputation, his freedom – now he faced a fight to just survive, locked up with men who would stop at nothing to torture and kill him. But it wasn't his own safety that worried him the most; rather, it was the knowledge that his friends had also been taken by Lex. Their faces kept appearing in his head, vivid memories of smiling faces cracking jokes and laughing in happier times. He loved those guys, loved them like the brothers he'd never had, and to think of them now, alone and afraid and wholly at the mercy of Lex's perverted imagination – it was just too much to bear. He had forged them into a team and put them in harm's way, and so he could not help but feel responsible for what was happening now. He _had_ to survive, for them – they needed him, and he was damned if he was going to abandon them, just when they needed him most.

For now, of course, there was nothing he could do. He just had to hope that somehow AC, Bart and Victor could hang on, and that Lex's twisted sense of humour meant that they were worth more to him alive than dead. Chloe and Clark were still out there, and if anyone could work out the truth, it had to be those two. To think of Chloe was even more painful than to think of what was happening to the guys. He just couldn't shake that image of her as he left the courtroom. She'd looked so utterly devastated, as if her world had just collapsed around her ears. What must she be going through now? The agony of not knowing what was going on, where he had been taken – surely that must be tearing her apart inside? He tried to console himself with the knowledge that she was strong; she was no stranger to heartache and disaster, and something inside him told him that through her pain, through her tears, her instinct to fight would eventually win through. She was Watchtower, damnit; there was an inner core of steel to Chloe Sullivan, a core that would not allow her to stand on the sidelines as the people she cared about were torn away from her. Clark was at her side, and together they would figure this out – he just knew it. But even as he consoled himself with these thoughts he remembered Lex's chilling warning, that he had plans for Chloe. What had he meant? He didn't know for sure, but one thing was clear – the net was closing in on Chloe, and fast. For all of them – the guys, Chloe, Clark, himself – time was running out.

The sound of footsteps outside caused Oliver to tense. Moments later he heard the electronic lock slide back, before the heavy steel door swung open.

"Rise and shine, leather boy!" said Galton, his body filling the doorway. "I hope you've had enough beauty sleep – the boys have heard how pretty you are, and you wouldn't want to let them down, now would you?"

Oliver said nothing, but slowly got to his feet. His heart was beating a little faster in his chest, and his senses were alert to even the slightest movement; instinctively he knew that danger was close, and already his body was preparing to face whatever the next few minutes might have in store.

"I hope you're hungry, boy," continued Galton, stepping aside and gesturing for Oliver to step out of the cell. "The food here may not up be to the standard of those swanky city restaurants you're used to, but hey – if you're a dog, you gotta expect to eat dog food, right?"

Oliver stepped into the corridor. Galton gestured for him to turn to the right, and slowly he began to walk down the long featureless passage. Galton's boots echoed on the floor behind him, mixing with the sound of voices, which grew louder and louder as they advanced further down the corridor. Turning to the right, he found himself just a few feet from the entrance to a well lit room. Two guards flanked the doorway, and beyond he could see men sitting at tables. Some were eating, others were talking; to Oliver's relief, none noticed his arrival.

Galton stepped past him, an ugly grin on his face. He was clearly looking forward to Oliver's first face to face encounter with the inmates of Nemesis, and wasn't in the mood for wasting time.

"What are you waiting for, boy?" he said, a mixture of impatience and anticipation in his voice. "You want to eat, don't you? Get in there and get your breakfast."

Oliver didn't move. He sensed a trap, but couldn't quite see a way out.

Galton stepped towards him, once again bringing his face to within inches of Oliver's ear.

"What's the matter, Green Arrow?" he whispered. "Don't tell me you're afraid! You're the tough guy hero – surely you can't be scared of these ladies? Or is that costume of yours just a big con, a mask to hide just how much of a coward you really are?"

Oliver gritted his teeth, but did not reply. He'd only encountered Galton twice, but already the man's taunts were getting under his skin. Eventually he wouldn't be able to help himself – he'd snap, and he knew that that would be all the excuse Galton needed to give him another beating.

"Now move!"

Oliver knew he had no choice. A look of grim resolution on his face, he walked forward, into the lion's den.

Faces turned as he entered the room. Almost instantly, a hush descended, countless conversations cut short by his arrival. Oliver stared straight ahead, trying his utmost to appear strong, unafraid; he could sense those countless pairs of eyes boring into him, filled with hate. For a few seconds there was complete silence, the atmosphere electric with tension. The air was filled with barely contained violence, forty to fifty men seething with rage and filled with an overwhelming urge to tear the new arrival limb from limb. It was as if someone was waiting for something to happen, some signal to release the unbearable tension...

"Well here he is, ladies," said Galton, at last stepping forward and taking control. "Our very own celebrity, Mr Oliver Queen. He's a little shy right now, so you make him feel right at home, okay?"

No one replied. Gradually men returned to their meals, and soon there was the low hum of conversations resumed.

"Queue up over there," said Galton to Oliver, pointing towards a line of men on the right. Slowly, and trying to appear as calm and controlled as possible, Oliver did as he was told, taking his position in the line. Galton walked in the opposite direction, joining one of the prisoners on the other side of the room. The two men began to talk. Oliver couldn't make the prisoner out too clearly, but he was a big man, standing well over six feet tall; tattoos covered his arms, and his head was shaven. What was striking, however, was his stare. He never once took his eyes off Oliver, even as Galton continued to talk to him. Even with a large room separating them, Oliver could feel the intensity in that stare, the cold evil that lay behind that gaze. He felt as if he knew the man, but couldn't quite place him...

The tattooed man wasn't the only one looking at Oliver. As they continued their meals the other prisoners continually glanced over at him, before carrying on with their conversations in low, menacing tones. He didn't know for sure, but Oliver knew that they were sizing him up, assessing his strength, his ability to handle himself in a fight. The atmosphere was thick with expectation, the men just waiting to see who would be first to seize an opportunity to strike...

Finally it was Oliver's turn. Watched over by a guard who stood at the counter, he picked up his tray and offered it to the prisoner who was serving out the food. The man scooped up what Oliver guessed was what passed for porridge, his lip curled in contempt as he stared at the young hero. He held it over Oliver's tray for a moment, before suddenly moving the spoon to the right and allowing its contents to fall to the floor.

Oliver looked at the food, which lay splattered across the polished tiles. Saying nothing, he held his tray out once more, deciding not to react to what was obviously a petty provocation.

"You only get one portion," sneered the man behind the counter, obviously enjoying the moment. "You wanna eat – pick it up."

The two men stared at each other. Oliver could see the pleasure in the other man's eyes. He would talk about this moment for weeks, maybe months; the moment he got one over on the Green Arrow, scored his own pathetic little victory over the once all powerful vigilante.

"I'll pass," said Oliver finally, fixing the other man with a flint-like glare. He was starving, but there was no way he was going to play this creep's little game, and go crawling around on the floor for the slop that passed for rations in this place.

He went to move on down the counter, but found his way blocked by the guard.

"Do as he says – pick it up."

Oliver opened his mouth to protest, but stopped himself. It was no use objecting; Galton's guards were as eager as the prisoners to rub his nose in the dirt.

"I gave you an order, boy – pick it up!"

Reluctantly, Oliver turned and slowly knelt down next to the spilt food. As the guard towered over him he began to scrape the food together with his hand, before depositing it onto his tray. He didn't need to look up to know that every eye was on him at that moment; he was the entertainment, and the act had only just begun.

The remains of the food back on his tray, Oliver stood up. He half expected some further humiliation, but he was allowed to get a mug of coffee unmolested. Mercifully, there was an empty table just a few feet from the end of the counter. He sat down, and as he began to sip at his drink he wondered if perhaps, for now at least, his tormentors had had enough of their little games.

He was wrong. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the bare wall to his left, but after about thirty seconds or so he became aware of movement off to his right. The atmosphere suddenly changed; the hum of conversation grew louder, more excited, as if the men around him sensed that something was about to happen. Oliver felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck; danger was close, very close indeed...

A huge shadow fell over the table. Oliver looked up, to find six scowling faces staring down at him. The men were huge, muscles pumped full of steroids bulging beneath t shirts that were deliberately too tight. The looks on their faces made it clear that they meant business, and that nothing was going to be allowed to get in their way.

"Get up!" ordered the man in the middle of the group, who appeared even bigger than the others.

Oliver didn't move, but instead slowly placed his mug on the table. Outwardly he appeared calm, but inside his mind was whirring, weighing up every possibility as the fight that was all but inevitable edged ever closer. The guards who had been such an obvious presence in the room just a minute or so earlier had disappeared; Galton, too, had gone, leaving the tattooed man alone by the wall, still staring intently at him. He was alone, which was exactly as Galton intended. He had clearly decided to allow the other prisoners their chance to have a crack at him, but what he didn't know was how far he would be prepared to let them go. He didn't think they'd be allowed to kill him, not yet anyway; a sadist like Galton would not want his new toy destroyed too early. But a toy could be broken, and these apes looked more than capable of doing some serious damage. They were physically strong, but almost certainly not very agile; Oliver knew that that was where he had the edge, and he would have to make that count when the time came to fight.

"I said, get up, you piece of shit!" repeated the man, his face contorted with hate.

Very deliberately, Oliver picked up his mug, before taking a sip of coffee. The entire room had fallen silent; the atmosphere was thick with expectation, everyone knowing that the moment of decision was very close now...

"Don't wanna fight, is that it, pretty boy?" sneered the man, edging a little closer. Oliver sensed movement behind him, two of the other men taking up positions for the assault which was now just seconds away. Mentally he recalculated his defensive strategy, working out how best to deal with this new line of attack.

And then it happened. There was a sudden movement to Oliver's left, a flash of steel as the leader of the group pulled a blade from beneath his t –shirt. He thrust the knife forwards with frightening speed, aiming for Oliver's chest. The man was quick, but not quick enough; Oliver grabbed the man's wrist, halting the blade just inches from his body. At the same time he threw the remains of his coffee in the man's face, the scolding hot liquid causing the thug to cry out in pain. The knife fell clattering to the floor, just as Oliver released his grip; the man staggered backwards, both hands clasped to his face.

Everything had happened in a couple of seconds, and the other men appeared momentarily paralysed by the unexpected turn of events. It was all the opportunity Oliver needed. He leapt up from his chair, pivoting 180 degrees as he did so. The momentum of his turn meant that when his fist made contact with the face of one of the men who had taken up a position behind him it sent him flying across the room, crashing into a nearby table and ending up in a heap on the floor. The second man threw a punch in his Oliver's direction, but Oliver was too quick; ducking to avoid the blow, he then drove his fist hard into the man's gut, before a second punch to his head sent him flying backwards.

So far, so good – but now the tables began to turn. Suddenly Oliver felt two sets of hands grab him by the arms. He struggled to get free, but couldn't, and as he continued to battle against the two men who held him fast a third man appeared in front of him, grinning broadly. Oliver could see the knife in his hand, poised and ready to strike...

"Hold him tight, boys!" he said, licking his lips in anticipation as he watched Oliver pull vainly against their grip. He hesitated for a moment, before thrusting the knife forwards. Just as he did so, Oliver threw himself to the left, causing himself and the two men who held him to lurch sideways. The knife cut deep into flesh, but it was not Oliver's; instead it was one of his attackers who screamed in pain as the blade embedded itself in his skin. Stunned, he let go of Oliver, before falling to his knees, blood gushing from the wound. It was all the opportunity Oliver needed; three swift punches dispatched his other captor, before a roundhouse kick sent his would-be killer flying against the far wall.

It was all over in a matter of seconds. Oliver stood, defiant, amidst the wreckage the fight had created, bloodied and unconscious bodies lying broken at his feet. He was breathing heavily, but was otherwise unharmed. Adrenalin coursed through his veins; he felt almost exhilarated, the attack at last giving him an opportunity to fight back, after days of torture and abuse. He was the Green Arrow, damnit – and at that moment he felt he could take on the world.

"Who's next?" he demanded, looking at the other inmates. He could see the disappointment in their eyes, their shock at seeing six of their number taken down so easily.

"What – no one?" he continued, taking a step towards them. "Cos I'll take you all on – just try me!"

Pumped up, he almost wanted them to have a go. The fight had made him feel alive, given him a chance to be master of his own destiny, at least for a few moments. It was as if the walls of the prison, and the thousands of miles that separated him from his home, did not exist; he was the hero once more, taking out the bad guys with just his wits and his physical strength to protect him.

He glared at them for a moment, waiting for someone to take up the challenge. No one did; instead he saw their eyes move just to his left, as if something was happening behind him...

He understood too late. He felt the press of something hard against his neck, and then the crackle of electricity as a few thousand volts shot through his body. He went to speak, but no sound came; instead he crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

Galton stood over him, the taser still in his hand.

"Take him to the punishment block," he ordered, looking around at the human debris that lay scattered across the floor. "And get this shit cleaned up."

Two guards stepped forward. They grabbed Oliver by the arms, hauling him to his feet before dragging him away towards the exit.

"Okay, ladies – show's over!" said Galton. The men started to return to their tables, the low hum of conversation resuming once more. Galton moved across to the far wall, rejoining the man he had spoken to earlier.

"Well, what do you think?" he asked. "He's good – better than I expected."

"When do I get to have him?" asked the other man, his voice cold and expressionless. He didn't look at Galton, but continued to stare out across the room, still and unmoving.

"All in good time, all in good time," replied Galton. "My boys get to have their fun first, remember?"

"And _I _get to kill him, remember?" said the other man, turning towards Galton and fixing him with an ice cold stare. "That was our deal, Galton – you wouldn't be backing out on me, now would you?"

Galton seemed to wither under the other man's gaze. His uniform gave him authority, but at that moment it was the prisoner who was in control. There was fear in his eyes as he met the other man's stare; whatever hold he had over his jailer, it was hugely powerful.

"Two hours – you can have him in two hours," said Galton, tension audible in his voice.

"Two hours," repeated the other man. "Don't keep me waiting, Galton – I'm not a patient man."

He turned and began walking away. Galton sighed visibly, looking around the room to see whether anyone had observed their conversation. It didn't matter if they had; everyone knew the power that Smith wielded within Nemesis. Every guard, every inmate – they all cowered before this man. He controlled everything, his authority backed up by a tendency towards explosive violence that struck fear into even the hardest of these cons. Galton had encountered some terrifying men in his time working in the service, but none came close to Smith; there was a brutality that lurked beneath the surface of this man that was bestial, even inhuman.

And now he wanted Queen – _he_ wanted to be the man who killed the Green Arrow.

Galton allowed himself a smile. He knew what was coming – and for Oliver Queen, it was nothing short of a hell on earth.

* * *

Looks like Ollie is in BIG trouble - but you wouldn't want it any other way, would you? It was great to allow Ollie to kick some ass in this chapter - can't you just see him taking out a gang of bad guys like this, with some amazing moves? I miss him SO much... Lots of Ollie action and angst coming up in the next chapter, plus we we will catch up on Clark and Chloe - will they come to the rescue, before Lex closes in for the kill?

Sorry for the delay in updating. Real life just keeps getting in the way, and for some reason writing is REALLY difficult at the moment - I seem to be taking twice as long to write a thousand words as I used to. Thank you all SO MUCH for being patient, and for your words of support - at the moment they are badly needed! Please, please do post a reivew if you can - to know that you guys are still out there is so incredibly important in maintaining my desire to work through this difficult writing patch!


	26. Chapter 26: Hanging On

**Chapter 26: Hanging On**

**WARNING: Serious Ollie whump ahead**

"Chloe, you've done enough – you need to take a break."

Clark stood over Chloe, watching as she continued to type furiously at her keyboard. In front of them a bank of screens displayed a bewildering array of data, line after line of apparently indecipherable numbers and symbols the product of hours of painstaking work. Every resource at Watchtower's disposal was being brought to bear in an attempt to crack LuthorCorp's security systems, in the perhaps vain hope that somewhere they might find something which would enable them at last to fight back against Lex's seemingly inevitable march to absolute victory. A name, a location – they didn't mind what it was, just so long as it gave them an opportunity to fight back. The lives of their friends were at stake – both knew the consequences of drawing a blank.

"Chloe, please..."

"Just a few more minutes – there's just one more thing that I want to try."

Clark sighed. Chloe had barely moved from her computer since he'd returned from his confrontation with Lex. That had been fifteen hours ago, but still she would not give up. Her reserves of energy were phenomenal. She worked with the intensity of someone possessed, and it was as if the disaster that had befallen them all had imbued her with almost superhuman strength. But there was more to it than that, as the photograph propped up against an empty mug on her desk made all too clear. It showed Chloe and Oliver together, each smiling broadly at the camera. They were the picture of the perfect couple, two beautiful young people utterly in love. It was a picture of happier times, but now it spurred Chloe on, reminded her that she had to stay focused if she was to save the man she loved. She had to keep working, because if she didn't she would have to face the truth – that perhaps Oliver wasn't coming back, and that her fairytale was not to have a happy ending after all.

Driven on by love, Chloe had pushed herself to beyond the limit of what was humanly possible. Clark knew that she had to stop now, before physical and mental exhaustion finally took its toll and caused her to collapse. Reluctantly, he knew it was time to step in, if only to save her from herself...

"That's it! I've found it!"

Chloe's unexpected outburst caused Clark to jump. He peered at the screen, trying to identify the cause of her excitement.

"What? What is it?"

"It's well hidden, but I know that has to be it – it just has to be!"

"What? Chloe, you're not making any sense."

"I've managed to breach three of Lex's firewalls. It's not much – the most sensitive stuff even Watchtower can't reach. But I have gained access to a list of LuthorCorp properties, and this one – Rowell – well, for some reason it just leapt out at me. According to this, Rowell is empty, but when I cross referenced to LuthorCorp purchases countless deliveries have been made there over the last two to three months. Computers, office furniture, food – there have been almost daily deliveries there for weeks."

"So...?"

"Don't you see? This must be where Lex was hiding after he escaped from Bateman. This is where he planned it all, Clark – this is his new base!"

She looked up at Clark, her eyes sparkling triumphantly. After the days of disaster and defeat, she appeared almost radiant, relief at having at last achieved a breakthrough writ large on her features.

Clark didn't hesitate. "Good work, Chloe," he said, returning her smile. "I'll go and check it out – if we're lucky, this might be the key to finding the guys."

He turned to leave. Chloe grabbed hold of his sleeve, causing him to stop for a moment.

"Be careful, Clark," she said, a look of worry replacing the happiness of seconds earlier. "Lex is dangerous – you don't know what he might be doing at that place."

"Hey, it's okay," he replied, trying to reassure her. "I won't take any chances. Monitor my frequency – I'll stay in touch."

He turned, before a sudden whoosh of air marked his departure.

Chloe turned back towards the bank of screens. Overwhelmed with relief, she hardly dared hope that this might be it – that this really was the moment when their fortunes finally turned.

She glanced down at the photo. She picked it up, holding it so that she could see it more clearly. Gently, she ran her finger over Oliver's smiling face, as if her touch could somehow bring her closer to him.

"Hang on, Oliver," she whispered. "We're coming – I promise you, we're coming."

* * *

_Stay awake...Must stay awake..._

Oliver's head jerked upwards. Inwardly he cursed; for the seventh or eighth time he had caught himself hovering on the edge of unconsciousness, only to pull himself back from the brink. Physically he felt shattered, and he knew that it was probably only a matter of time before he succumbed to his overwhelming need to sleep. Every fiber of his being cried out for rest, so much so that even the effort of keeping his eyes open seemed too heavy a burden to bear. He longed to rest, but he knew that the oblivion of sleep held its own perils. His body was shutting down, so much so that instinctively he knew that was he to fall asleep now, he might never wake up...

He fixed his eyes on the orange light in front of him. It marked the location of the door, not that he could see it; everything else was shrouded in an all consuming darkness. For Oliver, this was strangely comforting. The darkness masked the horrors of this "punishment room," with its bloodied baseball bats, shackles and cattle prods. They'd dragged him here after the fight, a couple of hours earlier. It had all been a set up, of course, a test of his abilities and the excuse that Galton needed to unleash the full force of Nemesis against its newest inmate. A bucket of ice-cold water had brought him back to consciousness, coughing and choking on the hard concrete floor. They'd tied his hands behind his back, before they'd hauled him to his feet, ready for a dose of "discipline," as Galton called it. He'd been beaten without mercy. Two of the guards had held him upright, whilst the others took it in turn to punch him time and time again. It had lasted for what seemed like an eternity, the physical torment accompanied by a torrent of abuse and taunts. They'd wanted a reaction, wanted to provoke him so that they could humiliate him still further. He'd not risen to the bait, instead staying silent as his abs were pummelled like some steak being readied for cooking. His silence had only served to provoke them, one of them reaching for a baseball bat and swinging it with all the strength he could muster into the young hero's side. At that point Oliver had not been able to help himself; he'd cried out in agony, his scream echoing obscenely against the iron and stone of the dark cell. It was a cry that probably saved his life, as a couple more blows from the bat would almost certainly have smashed his internal organs to a pulp. As it was, his tormentors had got what they wanted. Their bloodlust satisfied, they'd allowed him to slump, bloodied and broken, to the floor. For a few moments they'd towered over him, watching his bruised and shattered body struggle to find some respite from its agonies. One of them had spat on him, the mucous landing on his cheek and mixing with the blood that streamed readily from a cut above his left eye. Another took a photo on his cell, eager to capture the moment forever – the moment he had humbled the mighty Green Arrow.

It had been a savage beating - like nothing he'd ever experienced before. He'd expected it, from the moment Galton had locked him in his cell the night before. The man was a sadist; Oliver was like a new toy, to be brutalised and broken at will. But even though he'd known it was coming, had steeled himself for it, nothing could have prepared him for the incredible ferocity with which Galton's thugs had set about their task. And as he'd lain on that cold floor, every fiber of his being crying out in agony, there had been a moment when he'd wished that it would end, that Galton would simply take a gun and put a bullet in his head. His determination to survive, to fight with every last ounce of strength to save his friends and Chloe, had wavered. He'd doubted himself – doubted his will to survive. It had only lasted a second or two, but it had been enough. He'd felt fear at that moment; if his resolve was already starting to crumble, what hope was there for the coming days? Because one thing was certain – this was only the beginning...

Their photos taken, Galton had ordered his men to drag Oliver to his feet. They'd forced him to take off his tunic and t –shirt, leaving the upper half of his body naked and exposed. His wrists had then been placed in heavy steel manacles, fixed to chains which hung from the ceiling. Once secured, the chains had been winched upwards, pulling Oliver upright until his feet just lifted off the ground. He was only a few inches from the floor, but the effect was excruciating; he hung suspended from the chains, his tortured muscles stretched taut under his own weight. Finally, as if they had not tortured him enough already, Galton had turned on some sort of sprinkler system. Oliver was suddenly showered with ice cold water, drenching his body and mixing with the blood from his open wounds as it slipped down his naked torso towards the floor.

And that was how they'd left him. He'd been alone for an hour or so now, fighting the physical and mental exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm him. The viciousness of the beating had been bad enough, but now it was the effects of the ice cold water which worried him the most. The pain of his wounds had been strangely reassuring, a reminder that he was still alive. But the pain was fading now, his body slowing losing all sensation; the cold was eating away at him, seeping insidiously into the very core of his being. And still the freezing water continued to fall, the gentle sound of fine droplets hitting the floor almost hypnotic in their effect. It sounded so peaceful, so calm – and yet this freezing water was killing him, as lethal as any bullet.

Suddenly a sound caught his attention. His senses alerted, he listened. What was it? Footsteps? Yes... yes, he could definitely hear footsteps, somewhere outside in the corridor. A mixture of relief and terror swept over him. Perhaps they were going to release him, allow him time to recover – or perhaps they had some new torment in store, even worse than the last...

The door to the cell swung open. Oliver lifted his head, to see the figure of a man silhouetted in the doorway. Squinting from the blaze of light which had suddenly flooded the cell, he struggled to make him out. The man didn't move; instead he stood watching for a few seconds, his eyes trained on the stricken hero who hung helpless before him.

Oliver's eyes widened as at last he recognised him. It was the man who had stood watching him in the dining hall, the tattooed con who Galton had spent so much time talking to. It didn't make any sense – how could he be here? Where were the guards? Oliver felt his stomach tighten; whatever this was, he felt sure it wasn't going to be good...

At last the man stepped forward. He began to walk slowly around Oliver, his eyes scanning the young hero, taking in every cut, every bruise, every wound. In the half-light cast by the open door, it was an unnerving experience; like a jackal circling a wounded lion, the man seemed to be taking his time, preparing for the moment when he would move in for the kill. Only the falling water and the sound of Oliver's laboured breathing disturbed the stillness. Oliver understood what was happening, that the man was deliberately messing with his head, but that didn't make it any easier to bear; he could feel a knot of fear tightening in his gut, as he waited for his sinister visitor to reveal his hand.

Finally the man came to halt in front of Oliver, just a matter of inches from where he hung, helpless and exposed. The two men stared at each other. Oliver shrank inwardly; the eyes that now bored into him were cold, lifeless – and utterly evil.

"Remember me, Archer?"

The man's voice was quiet – so quiet, Oliver could barely hear it above the sound of the falling water. The stillness only added to the atmosphere of menace that now filled the cell, the sense that something terrible was about to happen. Oliver's mind was racing. Had he met this man before? Who was he? As he stared, mesmerised, into those cold eyes, he felt a flicker of recognition...

Smith saw it.

"Yes, you do remember, don't you?" he continued quietly. "It was nine months ago – in Star City. You and your friend Aquaman...yes...yes... I can see that you _do_ remember."

Oliver's eyes widened, fear taking hold of him. He did remember. He and AC had been on a mission to take out one of Lex's 33.1 operations. On a stakeout, they'd stumbled across a gangland execution. Some poor guy had managed to get on the wrong side of some mobsters, and was about to get whacked – that is, until he got the shock of his life, and found himself being rescued by two costumed vigilantes by the name of Aquaman and Green Arrow. The mobsters hadn't rolled over without a fight; three had been killed in the ensuing fight, before the remainder had been overpowered. Oliver and AC had tied them up, before tipping off the cops as to their location. Only afterwards did they learn the truth, that they had taken down one of the most notorious gangs in the country. Its leader, known as John Smith (an alias – he never had revealed his true identity) had built his reputation over the space of ten years, terrorising the criminal underworld in five cities as he established control over the drugs trade. No one knew how many men he'd killed, but it certainly ran into dozens – those who crossed him were shown no mercy, as he took great pleasure in overseeing their torture and murder personally. One of the most brutal killers in the country, he'd been sentenced to life – Oliver remembered clearly reading about it in the Planet, and reflecting on how inadvertently he'd helped bring about the capture and imprisonment of such a monster. He'd thought no more about it – until now, as that very same monster now stood just inches from his face.

"You made a big mistake that night, Archer," continued Smith, staring unblinking into Oliver's eyes as he reached down and pulled out a knife which he had hidden beneath his t-shirt. "You and that freak friend of yours – just couldn't mind your own business, could you?"

"Occupational hazard," gasped Oliver. "When I see a pile of shit, I just gotta clean it up."

Smith smiled. "You're a funny guy, Archer," he said, placing the tip of the knife's blade against the wall of Oliver's gut. Oliver flinched, aware that danger was very close now.

"You know I've dreamed of this moment, having you all tied up and helpless," he continued, moving his face a little closer so that his warm breath filled Oliver's senses. "I've dreamt of what I'd do to you, how I'd make you suffer. And you've suffered in my dreams, Archer – you've screamed and screamed like the rich little bitch you really are."

Oliver said nothing. He could feel the tip of the blade making its way slowly up his body, following the line of his abdominal muscles. It pressed hard into his skin, so hard it almost drew blood. But not quite – Smith knew his twisted craft, understood that the fear of what was to come was almost as bad as the torture itself.

"And now you're here – my dream come true! The Green Arrow himself, gift wrapped like a Christmas present. Do you know how lucky I feel at this moment, pretty boy? Do you know how _good_ I feel?"

The knife was at Oliver's throat now. Smith turned it horizontally, so the entire length of the blade rested against Oliver's flesh. He pressed it forwards, pushing Oliver's head back until it could go no further.

"I'm gonna hurt you, Queen," he hissed, whispering into Oliver's ear. "I'm gonna see that you suffer. Because this is _my_ prison, boy – I own this place. Galton, the guards, the cons – all of them, they don't so much as shit without my say so. There's no place for you to hide from me, Archer– no way for you to escape. And we're gonna make you suffer – suffer so bad you're gonna come begging to me to put a knife in your gut. And I will do that for you, boy – but only when I'm good and ready. You ain't gonna know when it's coming, but when it does, know this: I'll be the one holding the knife, boy - I'll be the one who sends you to hell."

His speech over, Smith paused for a moment. Again silence filled the room, broken only by the sound of the water which continued to fall gently onto the hard stone floor. Oliver swallowed hard as the blade continued to press against his skin. Terror gripped him; the smell of the man's stinking breath filled his nostrils, and he could almost feel his tormentor's sense of expectation. There was no doubting this man's intentions, and at that moment he felt more scared than he had ever done in his entire life.

"You fight well, Queen," continued Smith, at last withdrawing the knife from Oliver's throat. Oliver could not contain his relief; he exhaled audibly, unaware of the horror that was to come...

"All that lean muscle – you must work out a lot, yeah?" asked Smith, his tone now almost conversational. He drew the knife lightly across Oliver's well defined chest, his pecs glistening in the half light cast by the open door. "The tough guy hero – and you sure made short work of those guys in the hall, didn't you? I bet you think you can take on anyone in this place, and you know something? You might be right."

Oliver stared at Smith, frightened eyes trying to work out his next move. Something bad was about to happen, something very bad...

"But I can't have that, leather boy – I can't have that at all. So I'm afraid I need to soften you up a bit – get you ready for what's to come."

The knife was resting against Oliver's right shoulder now, the point at right angles to his skin. Oliver knew what was to come, and steeled himself for the inevitable.

"You bastard," he whispered, gritting his teeth.

Smith smiled. "Don't be sore, hero boy. This is gonna hurt, but remember this – what I'm gonna do to you now, it's _nothing_ compared to what I'm gonna do to you next time – _nothing_."

Without hesitation, he then drove the knife deep into Oliver's flesh, slicing through the layers of muscle until the blade made contact with the bone. Oliver screamed, the sound of his agony echoing around the small cell so that it seemed as if it had emerged straight from the torments of hell itself.

Smith laughed out loud, twisting the knife inside Oliver's shoulder and watching as the young hero's face contorted in pain.

He was enjoying himself. And to think – this was just the beginning.

* * *

Poor Ollie! How much more can the guy endure? Chloe and Clark are on the case, but I fear that Ollie's torment isn't over yet... *evil, echoey laugh*

Sorry for the delay in updating - real life still getting in the way of writing, I'm afraid. In a few weeks I should have more time, so hopefully we'll be back to weekly updates. The last chapter didn't get as much feedback as some of the others I've written recently, which is a little disappointing. Maybe interest is falling away now the show is over - I'll keep going for now, but when it's clear you guys aren't reading anymore then it will be time to bring this all to an end, I think. Reviews would be great, and keep me motivated - please do leave some feedback if you can!


	27. Chapter 27: The Fifth Member

**Chapter 27: The Fifth Member of the League**

"It looks deserted, Watchtower – are your scans picking up anything?"

Clark stood on the rooftop of a warehouse, staring across at the building which was his target. The place seemed quiet, the absence of cars parked outside confirming his impression that the building was empty. If this had been the center of Lex's operation, it appeared abandoned now; Lex's reappearance in Metropolis society had perhaps done away with the need for a secret base in the heart of the city. Whatever the case, Clark still felt optimistic that he would find something here, that elusive first clue that would mark the beginning of their fight- back. For the first time since this nightmare began, they were one step ahead of their enemy – that alone was cause for hope.

"_Scans show no life signs, Boy Scout – you are clear to proceed."_

"I'm going in – keep this channel open."

Clark tapped his earpiece, bringing his conversation with Chloe to an end. He then leapt high into the air, effortlessly propelling himself over the road below and landing smoothly on the flat roof of Lex's warehouse. Silently, he jogged over to the skylight which Chloe had already identified as his best way in; security cameras covered the main entrances, and he didn't want to risk a passer-by seeing him rip one of the doors from its hinges. He made short work of the lock which held the skylight in place, and seconds later he dropped down into the heart of the building, barely making a sound as his feet made contact with the floor.

He found himself in a large enclosed space, dimly lit by five or six security lights. He guessed he must have dropped three or four floors, and looking up he could see the opening of the skylight high above him. The room was cool, in contrast to the sultry heat he'd just left behind him. Silence filled the space, save for the gentle whirring of electronic equipment somewhere off to his left. As Clark took in his surroundings he soon realised that Chloe had been right, and that this was no ordinary warehouse. Even in the half light he could see the banks of computers which filled the room, ranged in a semi-circle in front of him; beyond them he could just make out five large screens mounted on the far wall. It looked like a command center, a bunker from which some sort of military operation might have been run. Grimly, Clark realised that in many ways that was exactly what had happened here. Lex had masterminded the capture of the Justice League from this room, organising and executing his plan with ruthless efficiency.

He reached up to his earpiece. "Watchtower, I'm in," he began, his voice calm but focused. "You were right – this place is set up like some sort of operations room."

"_Boy Scout, I can hardly hear you... the signal is weak..."_

"Watchtower, do you read me?"

"_Breaking up... sig..."_

Clark tapped his earpiece a couple of times, trying to restore the signal. It was to no avail; Chloe's voice had disappeared now, to be replaced by the crackle of static. Frustrated, he cut the com link. It was the first thing to go wrong on the mission – a minor hiccough, but nonetheless an irritating one. He knew he needed to move quickly now, as any early warning he might have received about unexpected visitors had been lost. He was alone, but he was not unduly concerned – there was nothing to indicate that the loss of communication was anything other than an unfortunate coincidence.

What happened next would change all that.

Suddenly the hall was flooded with light from the dozens of florescent tubes which hung high above him. Simultaneously every computer in the room sprang into life, as if some invisible hand had pressed some hidden button. Clark tensed, his heart beating harder in his chest; his eyes darted around the hall, trying to locate the as yet unseen danger. There was none – no sudden attack by a horde of LuthorCorp guards, no smiling Lex, purring at the success of his latest trap. Only the sound of the computers disturbed the stillness, booting up as if they had a life of their own.

It was then that Clark noticed the large screens hanging on the far wall. They too had sprung into life, but the story they now told was far more sinister than anything he had yet encountered. Each was filled with an enormous head shot of a member of the Justice League. They were all there – Bart, AC, Victor, Oliver. Each was smiling broadly, young heroes exuding confidence in their own abilities. It was a display that carried huge meaning, given what Clark knew of the fate that had befallen each of them. He shuddered inwardly, the chilling power of the images rammed home by the devastating words which could be seen written across each smiling face:

_Target: Deleted_

"It's an impressive sight, isn't it? Not quite a trophy cabinet, but I like to think of it that way."

Clark spun round. There, just a few feet away, stood Lex.

"Where are they, Lex? What have you done with them?"

Lex smiled. "Clark, Clark, calm down!" he said quietly, clearly amused at the other man's anger. "All that rage – it's just not like you."

"Cut the crap, Lex," continued Clark, taking a step towards Lex. "Tell me where they are, or I'll..."

"You'll what?" interrupted Lex. "Hit me? That's not really your style, is it Clark? But then I guess that's one of the reasons why Oliver has never quite accepted you into his band of freaks, isn't it?"

"I asked you a question, Lex – I'm not leaving until you give me an answer." Clark spoke clearly, but there was a slight hesitancy in his voice. It was the sign that Lex had been waiting for; he'd linked Clark to the Justice League, and the reaction he'd got was enough to confirm his suspicions.

"The elusive fifth member of the League – not quite part of the team, but still always there for his friends," said Lex, emboldened by Clark's obvious discomfiture. "You know I have to hand it to you, Clark – I almost didn't see it. Oliver hid you well, but the truth is plain to see when you think about it. Your friendship with these freaks, your relationship with Chloe, your absurd adherence to Oliver's pathetic sense of brotherhood – come to think of it, I don't really understand why I didn't see it earlier. But there's no denying it – you _are_ the fifth member of the League, aren't you Clark? The fifth member of Oliver's little vigilante freak show?"

Clark said nothing, but just continued to glare at his accuser.

"You know there's no need to be shy about it, Clark – no need at all," continued Lex, walking towards the screens which displayed the pictures of his victims. "You need to come out of the shadows, Clark – embrace your inner hero! Here, maybe this will help a little."

He pulled a small control device from his pocket, before pointing it in the direction of the fifth, and so far empty, screen. It immediately sprang into life. Clark knew what to expect, but still he could not help himself from taking a sharp intake of breath; there, displayed alongside the picture of Oliver, was his own picture, smiling broadly like all the others.

"Well, what do you think?" asked Lex, as if he wanted to provoke the young hero into some sort of reaction. "Personally I think it captures the essence of you, Clark – all that dumb farm boy innocence in that big, stupid face of yours. And have you thought of a name yet? All of Oliver's freaks have names – Aquaman, Cyborg, Impulse. What's yours, Clark? Mystery Man? Dumb-Boy? Super- Freak?"

"That's enough!" said Clark, refusing to rise to Lex's bait. "This ends now, Lex – where are they?"

"Where every terrorist belongs – behind bars," replied Lex, his tone harder now. "I've done this country a favour, Clark – I've taken Oliver and his band of vigilante freaks and put them where they can't hurt anyone anymore."

"You're delusional, Lex. These men have never hurt anyone – their only crime is to sweep off the streets the lowlifes, mobsters and pushers who've made a living off the misery of others."

"Like me, you mean?" asked Lex, his eyes flashing with anger. "Because that's what Oliver did to me, Clark. He locked me away and threw away the key. Years I could have rotted away in that place – _years_. Well now he's getting a taste of his own medicine – now he knows what it's like to wake day after day knowing that you have nothing to look forward to, no hope of release."

Lex was in full flow now. His pent-up emotions, usually so carefully bottled up, seemed dangerously close to exploding. Everything he'd ever suffered at the hands of Oliver - all the slights, the humiliations, the defeats – they were like some festering wound, which only the catharsis of revenge could heal. Clark knew that there could be no reasoning with this man – in his mind he had been grievously wronged, and now nothing would be allowed to get in the way of him extracting his pound of flesh.

"And so we come to you," continued Lex. "You know I always knew there was something not quite right about you, Clark. All those years in Smallville, but I never did get to the bottom of it. And then there was yesterday, and suddenly everything was clear! Just how strong are you, Clark? I have to tell you, when I saw you rip those doors off that prison truck – well, that's a sight that I'm going to remember for a long, long time!"

Clark said nothing. Inwardly his mind was racing, as he tried to work out how best to respond. Should he try to bluff it out? He might get away with it, but it wasn't likely – Lex had clearly seen what he'd done at the truck. But how? A camera – there must have been a hidden camera! It was obvious now he thought about it, but in the heat of the moment he'd forgotten to take even the most basic of precautions. Oliver wouldn't have made such a stupid mistake – but Oliver wasn't here...

"What, nothing to say?" continued Lex, pressing home his advantage. "Clark, there's no point in denying it – I saw _everything_. To think – all those years we've been friends, and all that time you managed to hide the fact that you are some sort of superman. Amazing, isn't it?"

"If you know about my abilities, then you know I can make you tell me where they are," said Clark, trying to sound as confident as his opponent; even as he spoke, he knew that his attempt to bluff Lex was doomed to fail.

The other man laughed. "Clark, please! You and I both know that's not going to happen. But I respect your powers, really I do – that's why I want you to meet a friend of mine."

Clark sensed movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned, to find a man standing silently over to his right. Well over six feet tall and clad head to toe in black, he stared impassively at Clark, like a hunter waiting to be unleashed...

"Clark, I'd like you to meet Slade," said Lex, moving over to where the other man stood. "He also goes by the name of Deathstroke – good name, don't you think? He and I have had a great time this last week or so, rounding up Oliver's little team of costumed mutants one by one. And when he learnt about _you_ – well, as you can imagine, he just couldn't wait to make your acquaintance."

Slade continued to stare at Clark. The glacial intensity of the man's gaze was truly unnerving. His dead eyes betrayed no emotion, but there was a certainty in his stare, an unshakeable confidence, that sent a shiver down Clark's spine. Who was this man? Could he really have taken out all of the guys? Clark felt his muscles tense; his senses tingled, aware that danger was close now...

"So I've got a proposal for you, Clark," said Lex, a half smile forming on his lips. "Slade and I, we're keen to see what you can do – a live demonstration of all that strength, if you will. You want to know where your friends are. Here's the deal – if you can take down Mr Slade here, I'll let you have one of your freaks. What do you say, Clark? Do you want to play my little game?"

"I've told you, Lex – I'm not here to play games," replied Clark, his features fixed in a picture of grim resolution. "Tell me what I want to know, or I swear – I will tear this place apart."

"Awww, Clark doesn't want to play!" said Lex, his words laced with mockery. "That's too bad, Clark – Victor here was so hoping you were here to save him from the big bad Lex!"

Lex spun round, and with a dramatic flourish aimed his remote control at the far wall. A panel slid back, to reveal a glass capsule. Clark gasped; there, dozens of wires emanating from his head, chest and legs, lay the naked body of Victor Stone.

In an instant, Clark was at the capsule. He ripped the glass front from the pod, casting it to the floor as he stared at the lifeless body of his friend. Victor did not move; only the monitors to either side of his body gave any indication that he was still alive. Clark hesitated. He wanted to pull the wires from the young man's body, shake him so that he would wake up, but reason stopped him. Victor's condition was uncertain; for all he knew, by trying to release his friend he might be doing exactly what Lex wanted him to do.

"I wouldn't do that, Clark," said Lex, anticipating the young hero's thoughts. "Remove one of those wires, and Victor dies. Not that he's really alive now anyway, of course – no, what's left of your cybernetic friend there is here, in this little flash drive."

Clark spun round. Lex stood a few feet away, a broad grin on his face; in his hand was a flash drive, held aloft so that it was clearly visible. It was the final straw for Clark. He rushed at his former friend, his face contorted with anger and frustration. He never reached Lex; instead he found himself flying through the air, landing heavily on the hard floor some fifteen feet from where he'd started. Stunned, he struggled for a moment to understand what had happened. Then he saw Slade, bearing down on him. He didn't hesitate; he leapt to his feet, just in time to block a punch aimed directly at his head. Clark could sense the other man's strength, but instantly he knew that Slade was no match for him. Taking advantage of the fact that the other man was off balance, he took hold of Slade and threw him with all the force he could muster towards a nearby wall. Slade hit it with such force he went straight through it. Bricks and masonry came crashing down around him, throwing up a cloud of dust. Unlike Clark a few moments earlier, Slade did not get to his feet. Instead he lay motionless on the floor; in this first trial of strength between Clark and the League's chief tormentor, he had been decisively defeated.

"Bravo, Clark – bravo!" said Lex, the sound of his clapping echoing against the walls. "You looked good on film, but to see you live - incredible! Just incredible!"

Clark grabbed Lex. Holding him aloft, he slammed him against the nearest wall, wrenching the flash drive from his hand.

"Tell me how to bring Victor back!" he demanded angrily. "Tell me, Lex – tell me or I _will _hurt you!"

"Easy, Clark – easy," said Lex, the infuriating half smile still on his lips. "A deal's a deal, remember? You won, so of course you can have Victor – just put the drive into the port to the left of the pod."

Clark let go of Lex, who slumped unceremoniously to the floor. He rushed over to the capsule. Locating the port, he didn't hesitate, but instead carefully inserted the drive into the slot. As he did so, he felt a sudden pang of unease. Something didn't feel right; this was all too easy – far too easy...

It was too late. The insertion of the drive caused a second panel in the wall to slide back, flooding the immediate vicinity in a strange green glow. Clark staggered backwards, before falling to his knees. He knew immediately he had fallen into a trap, and that the source of the pain that now scythed through his body was the thing he feared most:

_Kryptonite!_

"Clark, you don't look so good!" said Lex. Clark looked up, to find his old friend towering over him, his eyes flashing with excitement and exhilaration. "What is it they say? Curiosity killed the cat?"

Clark rolled over on to his back, gasping in agony. Above him he could see the green glow of the meteor rock, still located in its lead lined case in the wall. He'd barely caught a glimpse of the kryptonite, but he knew that the rock must be large. He could barely move, as every muscle and bone in his body shrieked in pain; the effect was excruciating, rendering him as helpless as a new born baby.

"Winslow Schott told me what this rock does to you, but I never expected this," continued Lex, staring down at the stricken hero.

"Winslow...?" gasped Clark, as if he were unable to comprehend what was happening.

"Didn't I mention him? I met him at Bateman. Thought he was a lunatic at first, but after I saw that footage of you at the truck – well, let's just say he was a real mine of information about you and your secrets."

"Lex, please..." groaned Clark. His eyes were filled with terror, as the full meaning of Lex's words hit him like a thunderbolt.

_Lex knows...Oh God, Lex knows...!_

"Don't worry, Clark – I don't intend to kill you, at least not yet," said Lex, squatting down next to Clark. "There's so much I can learn from someone with your – how shall we put this? – _unique _heritage."

Clark did not reply; instead he stared, wide-eyed, at the man who now held his fate in his hands.

"You know you should never have hooked up with Oliver, Clark. You should have stayed in the shadows – who knows, perhaps you would have been able to live out your days without anyone ever knowing the truth about who you really are. But all this vigilante stuff – the costumes, the secret identities, the insufferable arrogance – it sucked you in, Clark, it _seduced_ you. In many ways you and I have a lot in common – we're both victims of Oliver Queen, albeit in very different ways. But now you have to pay, I'm afraid – just like all the others are having to pay for allying themselves with that preening piece of shit. So where shall we begin, I wonder? I know -how about some formal introductions?"

Lex leaned down, so that his face was just a few inches from Clark's.

"Would you like that, Clark?" he purred, a twisted grin on his face. "Or may I call you _Kal-El_?"

* * *

You didn't _really _think that Clark and Chloe were going to rescue the guys that easily, did you? Nothing's ever easy in my stories - especially if there's a chance for some angst and drama! Sorry there's no Ollie in this chapter (but you can have too much of a good thing, right?), but I hope you can see that this chapter is important for the development of the story. Lex now has all our heroes in his clutches - Chloe is their only hope. Can she save them? The net is closing in...

Hope you enjoyed this one. I was really lifted by the feedback for last week's chapter, and that's one of the reasons why this installment is appearing earlier than expected. Please, please do leave a review if you can - they really do have the power to make my day!


	28. Chapter 28: Sidekick

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: Sidekick**

"How the hell was this allowed to happen?"

Warden Flynn stared through the one way glass, his brow furrowed with anger and frustration. In front of him he could see the twelve beds of the infirmary, six spaced out at intervals on either side of a central aisle which led to the doctor's office at the far end. The room was spartan, but brightly lit, the white walls and polished tiles making it appear like countless other hospital wards around the world. Only the armed guard on sentry duty at the door gave any hint of the infirmary's true purpose, to patch up those who fell foul of Nemesis's violent culture. Flynn rarely came here, but the occupant of the bed nearest the window on the right had forced him to leave the safety of his quarters. Oliver Queen had received a beating – and it was barely twenty-four hours since his arrival.

"You should have stopped this, Galton," he continued, not taking his eyes from the young man who lay unconscious on the bed just a few feet from where he stood. "You knew that Queen was going to be a target – where on earth were your men when this was happening?"

"There was a fight - they were distracted," replied the other man, hardly bothering to make his lie sound convincing. "They only turned their backs for a second, but..."

"I'm not interested in excuses," snapped Flynn. He was more angry than he'd been in months. Having to play host to a celebrity prisoner was bad enough, but the prospect of Oliver being killed on his watch was something he was not prepared to contemplate; with only weeks to go before he stepped down as warden, he was damned if he was going to have his record blighted by the carelessness of Galton and his paid thugs.

A man in a white coat appeared, clutching a file in his right hand.

"How is he, doctor?" asked Flynn, turning his back on Galton.

"He's suffered quite a beating – and one which appears to have lasted a few hours," replied the other man, unaware that his words were destroying the credibility of Galton's version of events. "He's sustained multiple lacerations, and severe bruising to his abdominal region. However, there appear to be no internal injuries – the stab wound to his shoulder is pretty deep, but it should heal in time. Mr Queen is a lucky man – someone without his level of fitness could well have sustained life-threatening injuries after an assault of this severity."

"You told me this attack was all over in a matter of seconds," said Flynn, turning to face his deputy. "Just what the hell is going on here, Galton?"

"My men... when they restrained Queen, maybe they got carried away a bit," replied Galton lamely, apparently unconcerned that his words had been exposed as a naked lie.

"Listen to me, Galton," interrupted Flynn, struggling to contain his mounting anger. "You're not in charge here yet, whatever you might think. I'm still the warden, and for as long as I am no one is going to touch another hair on Oliver Queen's head, do you understand? Because if they do I will hold you personally responsible – and you can kiss goodbye to any hopes you may have of taking over when I'm gone. I still have influence at the bureau, and I will make it my personal mission to see you never get another promotion – ever. Am I making myself clear?"

Galton's lip curled in surly contempt. "Crystal," he replied.

"Good. Now I want a guard posted here around the clock – no unauthorised access. And when he's recovered I want him held in an isolation cell – no more encounters between Mr Queen and the other inmates. Doctor, how long is he likely to be here for?"

"At least a week – I will need to keep an eye on that shoulder wound."

"Good. Let me know if his condition changes – and if you have any problems with security."

Flynn glanced at Galton, but the other man seemed unbothered by the pointed nature of his last remark. The two men turned away from the window, and set off back down the corridor which led to the exit.

The doctor pulled an electronic keycard from the pocket of his white coat and inserted it into a slot in the wall. A door slid open, making barely a sound. Passing the stony-faced guard who was standing watch, he re-entered the infirmary, his sanctuary from the brutal world of Nemesis.

Immediately he made his way over to Oliver. The young hero appeared to be unconscious, his eyes closed. His face appeared peaceful, almost serene; only the bandages covering his shoulder and some cuts and bruises gave any indication of the torture he had endured at the hands of Galton and Smith. The doctor sighed. He knew exactly what had happened, how Galton had allowed Smith to give Oliver his own unique form of "welcome." Unfortunately it was nothing new; over the previous five or six months he'd become all too familiar with the reign of terror imposed on the facility by Galton and his unlikely ally. He'd complained to the warden, given him ample evidence of Galton's corruption, but nothing had happened; Flynn seemed all too willing to abdicate his responsibilities in return for a quiet life during his final few weeks in charge. Only the prospect of an inconvenient death had roused him into action, but the doctor knew that the effect of the confrontation he'd just witnessed was likely to be shortlived. Flynn would soon be gone, leaving Galton as his most obvious successor – and the thought of what that might lead to just didn't bear thinking about.

"How is he, doc?"

The doctor turned. Standing beside him was a young man, about eighteen or nineteen years of age. Wearing a pair of dark blue jeans and an open shirt over a tight fitting wifebeater, he stood just over six feet tall. Lean and muscular, he cut a strikingly handsome figure; a shock of thick black hair crowned an open face, deep blue eyes staring intensely at Oliver's slumbering form.

"He's had quite a beating – looks like Galton and Smith really went to work on him," replied the doctor.

The young man frowned. "And is it true what they say about him? That he killed a cop?"

"You know the rules, Roy," replied the doctor. "In here we don't ask questions – everyone's a patient, whatever they've done. Now change his dressing, will you? I need to fill in some requisition orders."

The doctor turned and walked away. The young man hesitated, staring down at his patient. He knew what Oliver must have been through – when he'd first arrived at Nemesis he'd found himself at the receiving end of one of Galton and Smith's "welcomes." He'd stood out from the other inmates, not only because of his relative youth, but also because of his looks. Unfortunately, that had drawn him to Smith's attention. For a little over a week he had suffered torment after torment as Smith had played with his new "toy." The beatings had been bad enough, but the other things he'd been forced to endure... well, even now, weeks later, the thought of those long, terrifying days still brought him out in a cold sweat. He had come perilously close to breaking then, but a stay in the infirmary had offered him salvation. The doctor had seen him, and immediately understood; he had not just patched up his wounds, but had taken him on as his assistant, offering him an escape route from Smith's nightmarish world. It was no exaggeration to say that the doctor had saved his life – and for that he would be grateful until the day he died.

And what of this man, Oliver Queen? He couldn't quite believe that this really was the Green Arrow, the man he'd idolised back in the world he'd left behind. But the green leather pants which hung over the chair next to the bed meant there could be no doubt – this was indeed the hero whose fall from grace had stunned even this godforsaken corner of the world. From the moment he'd first read about the mysterious vigilante who was single-handedly taking on the crime lords of Metropolis he'd been intrigued, fascinated even. Everything he'd read about this man, everything he'd heard, had seemed so exciting, so exotic – the secret identity, the breathtaking acts of heroism, the determination to stand up to anyone, no matter how powerful. The Green Arrow had been a real hero, not some made-up figure from a comic book. He had no special powers, no abilities; all he had to protect him were his wits, his physical strength, and above all his own sense of justice. It was a powerful story, and one that had drawn him in, just like it had drawn in so many others. And that was what made this so shocking – that man, that hero he had put on a pedestal, here, in Nemesis. Could he really have killed that cop, like the stories said? He'd been found guilty in a court of law, after all. But the young man had had experience of American justice – and how it could be perverted, so that innocent men found themselves locked up, without any hope of appeal. He'd been a victim of a miscarriage of justice – why not Oliver Queen? Maybe Queen had been set-up, just like he'd been set-up? Or was he really nothing more than a callous cop killer, just the sort of criminal Nemesis was made for?

Oliver groaned. The young man started; nothing the doctor had said had led him to believe that Oliver was likely to come round any time soon. He turned to look for the doctor, but he was nowhere in sight. Suddenly Oliver began to thrash wildly in the bed, as if in the grip of some nightmare. Without thinking, the other man reached out, trying to hold Oliver still as best he could so that he did no further harm to himself. As he pinioned Oliver to the bed the other man's eyes snapped open. They stared wildly, blindly; it was an unnerving sight, as if the terrors of the last days and hours were being played out once more in his imagination.

After a few seconds Oliver's frantic struggling ceased. He fixed the young man who continued to hold him down with a wide-eyed stare, sweat glistening on his bare chest.

"Where am I? What is this?" he gasped, the fear and suspicion he felt inside audible in his voice.

"It's okay – you're safe," replied the other man simply, doing his best to sound reassuring. Whatever his doubts about Oliver, whatever crimes he may or may not have committed, all he could see now was a vulnerable, frightened man, lost and terribly alone. He knew what that was like – he'd been there, experienced the terror, the hopelessness. He'd needed a friend then, someone to offer some comfort and support in the darkest of hours. And now, looking down at this once all conquering vigilante, he knew that was what he must be – a friend to Oliver Queen, a support to a man whose world had just come crashing down around him.

Oliver moved his head quickly from side to side, as if searching for some unseen danger. "Where am I?" he repeated. "Who are you?"

"You're in the infirmary," said the other man, smiling to add weight to his words of comfort. "It's safe – they can't get you here."

"Who are you? Tell me who you are!" demanded Oliver. His eyes were still filled with panic; it was obvious that whatever Galton and Smith had done to him, it had left the young hero deeply traumatised. He started to struggle once more, twisting and turning to escape the other man's grasp.

"Hey...it's okay!" he said, letting go of Oliver. "No one's going to hurt you, man! Galton brought you here after they'd finished with you. The doc's patched you up, but you need to rest – if you keep moving around you're going to make that shoulder wound a whole lot worse."

Oliver stopped struggling. Wincing, he pulled himself up in the bed, looking around as he did so. At last he appeared to be calming down; he looked at the bandages on his shoulder, before turning once more towards the other man.

"So where's the doc?" he asked, looking over the young man's shoulder.

"He's just doing some paperwork – he'll be back in a few minutes."

There was silence for a few seconds. The two men stared at each other, neither quite knowing what to say.

"So you're Oliver Queen," said the young man at last, awkwardly attempting to break the ice.

"Yeah, I'm Oliver Queen," repeated Oliver wearily, relaxing a little into his pillow. "And who are you, kid? I gotta tell you, if you're a nurse, then..."

"A nurse? No – no, I'm no nurse," said the other man, smiling broadly. "The uniform – just not my style, man."

Oliver smiled – the first time he'd smiled in a long time.

"So who are you?" he asked again. "What's your name?"

"It's Roy – Roy Harper."

* * *

Ollie's found his future sidekick - yay! For those of you who don't know, Roy Harper was the first Speedy in the Green Arrow mythos, before Mia came along. I know the two of them met in different circumstances in the comics, but in my fanfic I make the rules! I know Smallville introduced us to Mia, but the character never really caught my imagination (probably because she wasn't given enough screentime), and I always wanted to see Roy Harper brought to life - so here he is! If you want to visualise him, imagine someone young and seriously hot - me, I imagine him as looking like Colton Haynes, who plays Jackson on Teen Wolf (check him out - he is gorgeous!). He's going to play a big part in the story from now on - its going to be fun exploring Ollie's developing relationship with a sidekick (and like all good sidekicks, he will both help our hero and be a major weakness as well).

Sorry for the lack of action in this chapter, but introducing Roy was my main priority, and after the drama of the last few chapters I figured we could do with a little quiet time. I hope you enjoyed it - please, please do review if you can, because even just a few words of interest and encouragement do help to keep me going (and believe me, there are moments when I wonder whether the time has come to bring this amazing ride to an end). August should give me some serious writing time, so hopefully updates will become more frequent then.


	29. Chapter 29: Doing what comes Naturally

**Chapter 29: Doing what comes Naturally**

"Your wound is healing well, Queen."

The doctor stood over Oliver, carefully examining the young hero's shoulder. Nearly three days had passed since Oliver's arrival at the infirmary, three days of precious calm after the storms that had threatened to overwhelm him. So much had happened over the previous fortnight – the disappearance of the guys, Dean's murder, his own unmasking, trial and imprisonment – that Oliver had barely had time to recover from one disaster before another crippling blow had sent him teetering perilously close to the edge of complete mental and physical collapse. And he _had_ come close to the edge – he realised that now. Lex's revenge was so skilfully planned, so meticulously choreographed, that it left nothing to chance. He had been given no time to recover, no time to rally – exactly as Lex had intended. That was what had made these three days in the infirmary so valuable. For the first time he had been given the space he needed, not just for his cuts and bruises to heal, but also for his reserves of mental strength to renew themselves. Things were bad, he knew that – but at least now he felt ready for the fight. And not everything was lost – Clark and Chloe were still out there, and if anybody would be able to unravel Lex's scheme it was those two. He was going to survive, and he was going to save his friends – despite everything, he now believed that more than ever.

"Ouch!"

Oliver winced, his face grimacing in pain as the doctor's examination of his shoulder wound hit an area of flesh still raw after Smith's sadistic assault. The doctor withdrew his hand, apologising as he did so.

"You're a lucky man," he said, taking a fresh dressing and placing it over the wound. "The damage is only superficial – it could have been a lot, lot worse."

"You know something, doc? I could use a lot of words to describe where I am right now, but lucky isn't one of them."

The doctor smiled faintly. Oliver wasn't like the other prisoners he had to deal with. They were hard men, men who he knew had inflicted wounds as grievous as those that they had suffered. Oliver wasn't like that; despite everything, he seemed to radiate warmth, a humanity that he rarely came across at Nemesis. He had to admit that, whatever he'd read about the crimes of the Green Arrow back in Metropolis, he actually quite liked this fallen vigilante.

"You know I didn't do it, don't you?"

"Do what?" replied the doctor, continuing to bind up Oliver's wound.

"Kill Detective Caruso. I was set up – set up by a man named Lex Luthor."

The doctor hesitated for a moment, glancing up at Oliver before resuming his work.

"I'm not interested in what you've done or not done, Queen – all I'm interested in is getting you well again."

Oliver sighed inwardly. He'd chosen this moment carefully, hoping that the rapport he had built up with the doctor over the previous few days would make him more receptive. The other man's non-committal response was not what he was looking for, but he knew he had to persevere. It had taken him a day or so to work out that his best chance of survival lay in finding allies, friends who could help him fight back against the forces ranged against him. But finding friends at Nemesis would not be easy; many of his fellow inmates wanted nothing more than to tear him limb from limb, whilst those who didn't were to a man cowed by Smith's iron grip on the prison. The guards, too, offered little hope; they were Galton's men, and besides, most were little different from the animals they stood guard over. Only the infirmary offered him any encouragement. The doctor and Roy had a warmth about them which stood in stark contrast to the cold, bestial atmosphere which lay beyond the infirmary's doors. If he could persuade them of his innocence, then maybe they could offer him the help he knew he needed to survive. The doc had a direct line to the governor – if he could just persuade him to talk to him, to somehow get a message to the outside world, to Chloe...

"So you just patch me up and send me on my way," he continued, hoping to find some way to break through to the other man. "You know Smith wants to kill me, right? And Galton's not going to stand in his way – it's clear those two have got some sort of deal going on. Do you really think the governor can protect me once I leave this place? Get real, doc. Please, listen to me – I need your help."

The doctor did not respond. Studiously he continued to avoid Oliver's gaze as he worked methodically to complete the task of applying a fresh bandage to the young hero's wound.

"If you could just speak to the governor – get him to call Chloe Sullivan in Metropolis," continued Oliver, speaking with greater urgency. He sensed he was not getting through, but he couldn't afford to fail. He knew only too well that it wasn't only his own life which depended on getting through to the doctor – Chloe's life was at stake too. Lex was after her, and he had to warn her, whatever the cost. This man held the key, and he needed to find something – anything – that would make him listen.

"Please, doc – you've got to do this. I need to get a message to her – I need to warn her about Luthor!"

"I'm sorry, Queen, but I can't help you," replied the doctor, obviously discomforted by the other man's increasingly insistent pleas.

"You helped Roy, didn't you? I need your help, just like he did – please, doc, you have to listen to me!"

The doctor glanced up at Oliver's face. He could see he was desperate, and for the first time he hesitated. Oliver saw it, and immediately understood. He had found a way to get through to the doctor, and that way was through Roy Harper.

Roy wasn't like the other prisoners – he'd realised that almost from the moment he'd regained consciousness in the infirmary. He stood apart from the others, and not just because of his age. Sure, he had the self-confidence that you might expect of a kid used to life on the wrong side of the tracks, but there was a vulnerability that lay behind his streetwise exterior, a naivety that seemed strangely out of place amidst the overpowering bleakness that was Nemesis. Through snatched conversations with Roy and the doctor he'd managed to piece together the kid's story – and what a story it was! Far from being some punk born into a life of crime, he'd spent most of his life living in comparative luxury, the only son of a wealthy property developer. He'd had it all – the nice house, the holidays abroad, the wide circle of friends – everything a guy in his teens could wish for, in fact. He'd been looking forward to college, with his whole life ahead of him, when disaster had struck. His father had been murdered, and within hours he'd found himself under arrest. It had seemed incredible, but a few months later he found himself in court, facing a murder charge. The weight of circumstantial evidence had piled up against him, but it was only when his stepmother had taken the stand and invented a pack of lies to suggest his guilt that he at last understood. She had set him up, presumably to get her hands on his father's inheritance for herself and her children from her first marriage. He'd tried to protest his innocence, but it was too late; the jury found him guilty, and before he could mount any sort of appeal he had been swallowed up by the system, only to re-emerge here, at Nemesis.

It was a shocking story – something straight out of the plot of some Hollywood melodrama. But this was no movie – the fate that had overtaken Roy Harper was all too real. As Oliver had found out more and more about the doctor's young assistant the more he had felt empathy for him, a bond which drew the two men together. They shared a common background – both came from a life of wealth and privilege - and both were alone in the world, orphans of parents who had been taken from them prematurely. Above all, both were innocent men, victims of miscarriages of justice. And the kid was hard not to like – the sense of humour, the sparkle in the eyes, the winning smile. Oliver could see why the doctor cared for him, and why he'd offered him the protection of the infirmary. Roy was a good man – and if Oliver could convince the doctor that he was the same, then maybe he could get the help he so urgently needed.

"Please, doc – a woman's life is at stake!" implored Oliver, hoping to exploit the other man's momentary hesitation. "Just talk to the governor, that's all I ask – get him to call Chloe Sullivan, warn her about Lex."

"I can't..."

"You can, doc – you must!"

Oliver reached out and grabbed the doctor's arm. He gripped it tightly for a moment, as if the force of his hand would compel the other man to acquiesce to his demand.

"I want a shot, man! Give me a god dam shot!"

A new voice, shrill and desperate, demanded the attention of the two men. Both looked down the ward, where they could see Roy being confronted by another man. Roy was holding his hands out, apparently in a gesture of conciliation. It wasn't working; the other man was squaring up against him, his face twisted in anger.

"Give me a fucking shot!" he screamed, his face just inches from Roy's. His wide, staring eyes made it clear he was some sort of addict, just like about sixty percent of the other inmates of Nemesis. Oliver guessed that the doctor had put him on a programme to wean him off whatever shit was destroying his system, and that for the first time that programme dictated that he be denied the methadone or whatever else he'd been prescribed to help ward off the inevitable withdrawal symptoms.

The doctor glanced across towards the door. The guard wasn't there; typically, he'd chosen this moment to abandon his post. The man was growing more and more agitated by the second. He advanced on Roy, forcing the other man to move backwards. Cursing and screaming, it was clear that Roy's attempts to pacify him were not working. Realising the situation was threatening to get out of control, the doctor left Oliver's side and started to make his way quickly down the ward. He hoped to diffuse the crisis, but instead his actions had the opposite effect. Startled by the doctor's sudden approach, the man made a lunge for Roy. He grabbed the teenager around the neck, spinning him round and pulling him against his own body as if he were a human shield. Roy began to struggle, but it was too late – the man's arm pressed down on his throat, holding him in a vice-like grip.

"Hibbert, stop this!" demanded the doctor, still advancing towards the two men.

"Don't come any closer!" gasped the other man breathlessly. "Don't come any closer, or I'll cut the kid's throat!"

As he spoke he pulled a knife from the pocket of his jeans. He pressed it against Roy's cheek, his eyes filled with madness and fear.

The doctor stopped dead in his tracks. He had no idea where the knife had come from – yet another example of Galton's idea of "security." But that didn't matter – what mattered was that it was just a few inches from the main artery in Roy's neck. One word out of place, one action misunderstood, and the boy would die.

"Okay, okay! Take it easy, Hibbert – let's just all calm down now, okay?" said the doctor, trying his best to keep his voice calm. Inside his pulse was racing; he could see the knife pressing into Roy's skin, the look of terror in the teenager's eyes...

"Give me a shot, doc!" demanded Hibbert. "Give me a shot, or I will cut him, you understand me?"

"Put the knife down, Hibbert – put the knife down and then we can talk about this."

"I DON'T WANT TO TALK!" screamed the other man, moving the knife so that now it was pressed against Roy's neck. "All I want is a shot, yeah! So you've got five seconds – five seconds to give me what I want, or the kid dies!"

The doctor swallowed hard. He knew that he couldn't do what Hibbert wanted. It wasn't just that it was against established procedure – he had run out of supplies of the medication that Hibbert craved.

"Five."

"Hibbert, please..."

"Four."

"I can't – I can't give you what you want. We've run out – I won't have any new supplies until..."

"LIAR!" shouted the other man, pressing the knife still deeper into Roy's flesh. "Three!"

The doctor said nothing. Hibbert was clearly off his head – nothing he could say was going to make any difference. He looked at Roy. The teenager was absolutely still, as if he were a rag doll in Hibbert's hands. But his eyes spoke volumes. They were fearful eyes, but also eyes which understood; Roy knew that the doctor was telling the truth, and that there really was nothing he could do.

"Two!"

The room was completely still, waiting for what appeared to be the inevitable...

"On..."

Hibbert did not get the chance to complete his countdown. Instead, inexplicably, he staggered backwards, letting Roy go as he did so. The teenager took his opportunity; he sprang free, moving clear before turning to make sense of what had happened. Hibbert had fallen to his knees. He was clutching his hands to his face, blood pouring profusely from a wound somewhere above his left eye. It was then that he saw the metal door-stop, lying on the floor a few feet from Hibbert. Was that what had taken Hibbert down? He turned, to see Oliver sitting upright in his bed, smiling broadly.

"Told you I was good, kid," he said. "Better get some help, before your friend there recovers."

Taking Oliver's advice, the doctor made for the exit. Roy, still a little dazed, glanced down at Hibbert, before looking back at Oliver. Just moments earlier he'd been a second or so away from having his throat slit, and now here he was, alive and without so much as scratch to show for his ordeal. The whole thing had an air of unreality about it, but one thing he did know – had it not been for Oliver's quick reactions and remarkable accuracy, he would now be dead.

"Thanks, man," he said quietly. He wanted to say more, but at that moment five or six guards swept into the room, bawling orders as belatedly they took control. Three of them took Hibbert into custody, cuffing him before dragging him from the room. The other two took up positions to either side of Oliver's bed, each training their guns at the young hero's head.

"Hey, what are you doing? Don't you understand? He saved me!" said Roy, advancing towards the guards. It seemed bizarre to him that the man who had saved his life should be treated as if he were some sort of suspect. Oliver, however, did not respond; apparently unfazed, he simply stared at the men who had their weapons pointed in his direction.

Galton entered the room, closely followed by the doctor. He barely looked at Hibbert as he was dragged towards the exit. Instead he walked straight over to Oliver, a strange half smile forming on his lips.

"Looks like trouble follows you around, Queen," he sneered. "I hear from the doc you've been quite the hero, saving the kid's life."

"Just doing what comes naturally, I guess," replied Oliver, meeting the other man's gaze. "This place sure needs a hero or two, given that you and your apes don't seem to know what side of the line you're on."

The smile faded from Galton's face. He wanted to strike Oliver, but with the doctor present he thought better of it; he didn't want him to run off and tell tales to the governor. Besides, he had another way of wiping that infuriating smile off Oliver Queen's face.

"Well, this incident shows us one thing – you're well enough to leave the infirmary," he stated, enjoying the flicker of a reaction he detected on the vigilante's face.

"But he's not ready – I've not finished my course of treatment," objected the doctor.

"Ohhh, I think he's ready, don't you?" continued Galton, turning to the doctor. "Or would you like me to have the kid transferred back to the main bloc? His friends are missing him over there – I'm sure they'd love to see his pretty face again."

The doctor did not reply. The choice was clear; he either let Oliver go, or allow Roy to fall once more into the hands of Smith and his thugs.

"Now get dressed, Queen," ordered Galton, picking up his leather pants from a chair and throwing them in his face. "We've got a cell waiting for you – and I just know you are going to love life in solitary."

Oliver knew he had no option but to comply. Without a word he swung himself out of bed, before pulling on his leather pants and tunic. He stood tall as his arms were forced behind his back and he felt the touch of steel on his wrists as handcuffs were locked into place.

"Remember what I said, doc," he said, staring the doctor straight in the eye. "Please, talk to the governor – I'm begging you."

The two men looked at each other for a couple of seconds, Oliver searching the other man's face for some sign that he had broken through. Once he was in solitary, he knew that his chance to get through to Chloe would be gone – the doctor was his last hope, and he needed him to listen. Part of him hoped that perhaps because he had saved Roy's life the doctor would be more open to his plea, but he was to be disappointed; the doctor said nothing, and his eyes gave no hint that he was prepared to do what Oliver asked.

"Get him out of here," ordered Galton. A shove to the back propelled Oliver towards the door, where Roy was waiting.

"You take care of yourself, yeah?" said Oliver, smiling at the teenager.

"You too, big guy," replied Roy, still not quite understanding what was going on. He could only watch as Oliver was led from the room, closely followed by Galton and the remainder of the guards.

There was silence for a few moments, the doctor and Roy trying to take in the events of the last few minutes.

"You've got to help him," said Roy finally. "You know what Galton will do to him – please, there must be something you can do?"

"It's out of my hands, Roy," said the doctor awkwardly, eager to change the subject. "Now tidy this mess up, will you?"

Roy did not press the issue; he knew the doctor well enough to know when his mind was made up. But as he set about clearing up the mess created by Hibbert, he couldn't shift Oliver's face from his mind. The guy had saved his life, and now he was facing who knew what at the hands of Galton and his apes – and all because the doctor had chosen to protect him, rather than save Oliver. He had to do something, but what?

After five minutes or so he made his way out of the infirmary. He headed off down a corridor to his left, which led to the stores. He was about to turn a corner when he stopped dead in his tracks. He could hear a voice – Galton's voice.

"Relax, Mr Luthor – everything's going according to plan," he heard Galton saying. There was then a pause, presumably because he was talking on the phone.

"Yeah, we've given your boy quite a welcome," he continued. "No...no...that's all under control... I know you're paying me a lot of money, Mr Luthor, but you've got to trust me, okay? We've got some things planned for leather boy... yes, yes, I know he's not to be killed, but you wanted us to make him suffer, yeah? We've just moved him to solitary, and you know what that means!"

Galton laughed, obviously sharing some joke with the man on the other end of the line. Roy had heard enough. Without making a sound, he began to retrace his steps back down the corridor. His heart was pumping furiously in his chest. That name – Luthor - that was the guy who Oliver claimed had set him up! And Galton was working for him! It seemed incredible. Roy felt a mixture of excitement, but also fear. He was afraid, because he sensed the power of the forces ranged against Oliver, and because the course of action he knew that he must now undertake would mean great danger. But he was also excited – excited, because now he had the evidence he needed to convince the doctor to do something to help his new friend.

Once he heard about this, the doctor would have no choice – he would have to speak to the governor.

Roy smiled.

At last, he was going to make a difference.

The Green Arrow had saved his life – now he was going to return the favour.

* * *

Is this the break that Ollie's been waiting for? Maybe - or maybe not! This chapter was all about telling us a bit more about Roy (and yes, I know it's not mythos - but it's my story, so I'll do what I want!), developing his relationship with Ollie, and setting up what's going to be happening in the next few chapters. Sorry if there has not been enough angst for you, but I promise I will make up for it - as we move towards this story's climax I have some big shocks in store, as well as a whole lot more angst for our heroes! Things will really start to move in the next chapter, which will also see the return of Chloe - yay!

Sorry it's been a couple of weeks since my last update - to make up for it, the next chapter should appear in the next seven days. Please, please do leave a review if you can - they mean so much, and without them I think I really would give this all up.


	30. Chapter 30: Loose Ends

**Chapter Thirty: Loose Ends**

"And you're sure you heard the name Luthor?"

Flynn stared intently at the young man who stood on the other side of his desk, searching his face for any sign that he was lying. Instinctively he never trusted the word of a con, however plausible they might appear; they were normally after something, working some angle to better their own position. Roy Harper, however, didn't flinch, but earnestly looked the warden straight in the eye as he gave his reply:

"Absolutely, sir – Officer Galton definitely said the name Luthor."

Flynn exchanged glances with the doctor, who stood next to Roy. Both understood the significance of what they'd just heard; if true, it had the potential to shake Nemesis to its very foundations.

"You did the right thing bringing this to me, Harper," said Flynn, fixing the teenager with a look of the utmost seriousness. "Now return to the infirmary – you have my word your allegations will be looked into very carefully."

"But what about Oliver Queen? You can't just leave him in solitary – not after what I've told you!"

"Roy, that's enough!" interrupted the doctor, worried that Roy's outburst would undermine his credibility with the warden. "Now go back to the infirmary – I'll join you in a few minutes."

Roy wanted to object, but another look from the doctor made him think better of it. Biting his tongue, he turned and exited the room.

"You believe him?" asked Flynn after the door had closed. "You said yourself Queen had formed a strong bond with the boy – what's to say he's not just made this whole thing up?"

"I believe him, Robert," replied the doctor. "Roy's hotheaded, but he's not a liar – if he says he heard Galton talking to Lex Luthor, he heard Galton talking to Lex Luthor."

Flynn said nothing for a moment. Instead he got up from his chair, before wandering over to the window. He looked out over the windswept courtyard, covered with a fresh layer of snow. Did he really want to take this on – now, when he had only weeks left before his time in charge of Nemesis came to an end? It would mean no end of trouble. Galton was hardly likely to confess, after all – there would have to be an inquiry, which would no doubt turn out to be as prolonged as it was messy. It could drag on for months, meaning that his escape from this godforsaken place would be delayed. Did he really want that? Galton was corrupt – so what? He'd known that for months. Why not just sweep it all under the carpet, and keep on counting the days off on the calendar that hung on his office wall.

And yet... And yet something inside him was telling him this time was different. Galton had stepped over the line, accepting money from an outsider. That was a whole new level of corruption – and what's more they could prove it. They didn't just have Harper's testimony –there would be phone records, evidence that would prove beyond a shadow of doubt that Galton was guilty of taking bribes. Nothing would be able to save him from that, not even the support of his army of servile apes. This was his last chance to nail Galton, and for the first time ever he knew he had the evidence he needed to do it. Why should he opt for the quiet life? This was the right thing to do, a way of leaving Nemesis with his head held high.

He turned to face the doctor, his mind made up.

"What are you going to do?" asked his friend, sensing a decision had been reached.

"What I should have done months ago," said Flynn, his face a picture of grim determination. "I'm going to make sure that Galton never serves in this programme ever again."

"And what about Queen? What about this Chloe Sullivan he keeps talking about? If he's right, then she could be in danger."

Again Flynn hesitated. Should he call this woman in Metropolis? Queen had mentioned her name when he'd arrived, and also during his time in the infirmary. Maybe she was in danger – hell, after what he'd heard from Roy Harper, maybe Queen was innocent after all.

"Calling her would breach all agency guidelines," he began, as if he were talking to himself out loud.

"But if she's in danger? Robert, you've got to call her – if this Luthor is as dangerous as Queen says he is, then you've got no choice. Besides, you only need to warn her – you don't need to tell her anything else, do you?"

"I suppose so..." said Flynn, looking at the doctor. The two had known each other a long time, and Flynn trusted the other man's judgement. The anxious look on his face was enough to make his mind up.

"Alright, I'll call her," he said. "But only to warn her - I'm not going to be responsible for breaching the integrity of the Nemesis programme any more than is absolutely necessary."

"You're doing the right thing, Robert," said the doctor.

"I hope so – I really do."

* * *

Three days – had it really been three days?

Chloe stared at the tiny clock in the corner of her computer screen. It read 13:46 - the exact time, three days earlier, she'd lost contact with Clark. She had no idea what had happened. Clark had been checking out the LuthorCorp facility at Rowell, and everything had seemed to be going well – her sensors had picked up no hostiles in the area, and Clark had made it into the building without setting off any alarms. But then all communications went dead. She'd tried everything she could to raise him, deploying all of Watchtower's resources, but it had been to no avail. When at last she had managed to get her satellite link back up, Rowell appeared empty – there was no sign of Clark, or anyone else for that matter. Just like AC, Bart, and Victor before him, Clark had just disappeared – it was as if he'd never existed.

She'd panicked then – panicked more than she'd ever done before. Working with Oliver and the guys, she'd got used to living life on the edge of disaster. But there had always been Clark, a constant reassuring presence in the background. He'd always been there, ready to save the guys when they'd found themselves in trouble – he was like a rock, immovable and permanent in the sometimes turbulent world she had chosen to inhabit. It was inconceivable that he would ever not be there for her – he was her man of steel, her hope when all else failed. But now he was gone – incredible as it seemed, Clark Kent was gone. Her mind had gone into overdrive when she'd realised he wasn't coming back, of course, and all sorts of scenarios, some more nightmarish then the others, had swirled around in her head. That Clark had been taken was in no doubt – but by whom? Who could overpower Clark Kent? Lex was behind this, just like he was behind every other aspect of this waking nightmare, but how on earth had he managed to defeat Clark? What force had he managed to harness? Did he know about kryptonite?

Questions, questions – so many questions! At one point she had felt as if her head was literally about to explode. Part of her had wanted to run. A voice inside her head had screamed out to her to escape, to flee – it didn't matter where, she just needed to get away, at almost any cost. Somehow, and still she didn't quite know how, she'd managed to hold her nerve. She was alone, but she still had the resources of Watchtower at her disposal – leave, and her last best hope of striking back would be gone. It was a risk, because for all she knew the location of the League's nerve centre might already have been compromised; the guys were strong, but even they might eventually break after the attentions of Luthor's professional torturers. However, she knew she had no choice, and as the hours had turned into days her confidence that the existence of Watchtower remained secret had grown. That was the only good news, for days of running scans and attempting to breach the security systems at LuthorCorp had turned up nothing about either Oliver or the fate of Clark and the others. She knew she was running out of options, but still she continued with her work. It was fear as much as anything else which drove her on – fear that were she to stop, the terrors which lurked in the back of her mind would once more re-emerge to haunt her.

Her cell phone began to ring. Faced with a battery of some of the most sophisticated computer systems on the planet, it seemed strangely out of place, and as Chloe reached across to pick it up she realised that she was about to speak to someone for the first time since Clark's disappearance. Typing in a code to scramble the signal and hide her location, she answered the call.

"Hello?" she said tentatively; her cell had not recognised the number, and she was wary of any stranger attempting to make contact with her.

"_Is that Chloe Sullivan?"_

"Speaking."

"_I've been asked to pass on a message to you – asked by someone you know."_

"Yes?"

There was a slight pause, as if the caller was uncertain about how to frame his message.

"_The message is from Oliver Queen – he says you are in danger, from a man named Lex Luthor."_

Chloe froze for a split second, not quite believing what she'd just heard.

"I'm sorry – did you say you've spoken to Oliver? Who are you? Where is he? Please, I need..."

Chloe's words tumbled from her mouth so quickly they barely made sense, but the caller quickly interrupted her.

"_I'm sorry, Miss Sullivan, but that's all I can tell you."_

"But at least tell me if he's okay! Please, who are you? Where...?"

She stopped mid-sentence, aware that the caller on the other end of the line had hung up. Slowly, she put her cell phone back down on the table, her mind racing to make sense of what she'd just heard. Who was this mystery caller, and – more importantly – what was his connection to Oliver? Her heart beat a little faster as she realised that the call had at least confirmed one thing – Oliver was almost certainly still alive. But where – where was he? Suddenly her hands moved to her keyboard, her fingers flying across the keys as she attempted to run a trace on the call. Instinctively, she felt that this was the breakthrough that she'd been waiting for; she was desperate to build on it, as if delay would allow it to float away into the ether. She blanked from her mind the content of the call, the warning that she was in danger. At that moment her safety didn't matter – all that mattered was trying to trace that call.

For three minutes she worked feverishly at her computer, deploying every trick in the book to try to find the origin of the call. Even with the power of Watchtower at her disposal, she found it frustratingly difficult to make any sort of progress. The caller seemed to have the same level of security as she herself enjoyed – whoever he was, he appeared determined not to be found. All her attention focused on the screen in front of her, she failed to spot the green light which silently lit up on the wall in front of her, the light that indicated that someone was in the elevator. Nor did she sense the elevator door slide silently open, or the footsteps which approached her from behind...

Too late, she felt the presence of someone behind her. She turned her head, but it was too late; a hand clamped a chloroform soaked rag over her face, and within seconds everything went black.

* * *

Chloe had no idea how long she'd been out. She guessed it couldn't have been that long – perhaps an hour, if that. Slowly regaining consciousness, she found herself sitting in a chair. Her hands had been tied tightly behind her back, and she could also feel rope around her ankles, binding her feet together. Silently, she cursed herself – how could she have been so careless? Watchtower breached, and she had been so wrapped up in what she was doing she had been too blind to notice. She had no idea who had overpowered her, and for the moment she didn't want to know; studiously she remained absolutely still, allowing her head to continue to loll forward onto her chest as if she were still unconscious. She thought she was still in Watchtower, but she couldn't be sure, and the lack of voices around her indicated that she was either alone, or perhaps was being watched over by a solitary guard. Maybe there might be a chance of escape – maybe...

"I know you're awake, Chloe Sullivan – open your eyes."

It was a man's voice. Chloe didn't move – she wasn't yet sure that her captor had really worked out that she had come to. But inside, her heart started to beat a lot quicker. There was something about that deep, confident voice – something that made her blood run cold...

"I said, open your eyes – or are you a coward, just like your boyfriend and his gang of freaks."

The words were designed to rile Chloe, and it worked. Realising that her pretence had run its course, she lifted her head and opened her eyes. She was determined to show no fear, but the sheer size of the man who now towered over her almost took her breath away; she suddenly felt very weak, and immensely vulnerable.

Slade stared down at his prey. He'd been waiting for this moment for a long time, ever since he'd started his research into Oliver and his league of vigilantes. Chloe intrigued him - the brains behind Watchtower, she was also the woman who had tamed Queen's notorious womanising. Strong and independent, the files indicated that she had fallen head over heels for the Archer. He wanted to know more about the woman who had won Oliver Queen's heart, but more than that, he wanted to play with her – slice away at her apparently unshakeable faith in her knight in shining green leather.

"Chloe Sullivan, aka Watchtower," said the man, studying her intently. "I've been looking forward to meeting you face to face, Miss Sullivan."

"Who are you?" demanded Chloe, trying desperately to mask the fear from her voice; the slight tremor in her words showed that she had only partially succeeded.

"My name doesn't matter, Chloe," replied Slade. "All you need to know is that I'm the man who snared your boyfriend, and his band of vigilantes – their days of terrorising the streets of this city are over."

"Why – why are you doing this?"

Slade shrugged. "Why do you think? Luthor pays well. Besides, bringing the Justice League boys to their knees – what can I say? It's been more than just a job, Chloe – it's been a pleasure."

A chill ran down Chloe's back. Slade's relaxed, almost casual manner was unnerving. He was talking about taking down the guys as if it were little more than a game, some sport to keep him entertained. Could it really be true? Had this monster of a man really got the better of them all – even Clark?

"You don't believe me?" asked Slade, reading her mind. "It's true, Chloe – deep down, you know it is. You shouldn't be surprised – after all, they're only boys, aren't they? Clean-cut, all American boys, playing at being heroes in their little costumes. Well boys make mistakes, Chloe, and unfortunately for your friends, those mistakes will cost them their lives."

"Better a boy than a hired killer," replied Chloe, her eyes flashing with anger.

"You think?" said Slade, reaching into the pocket of his coat. "I don't think Bart Allen said that when I sliced his ankles open, or Victor Stone when I took this."

Slade then tossed something into Chloe's lap. She looked down, but almost instantly recoiled in horror; there, staring up at her, was Victor's cybernetic eye.

"You're sick, do you know that? A sick, twisted bastard!" shouted Chloe, turning her head away and closing her eyes tightly. She could feel the eye nestling grotesquely on her lap, like some sort of twisted trophy taken by the ruthless hunter who now stood laughing in front of her.

"Chloe, Chloe! I thought you'd be happy to see your old friend Cyborg again!" he said, reaching forward and retrieving the eye. "I gotta tell you, this eye of his came in real useful when I wanted to get in here. All I had to do was to hold it in front of one of those fancy iris recognition scanners you've got downstairs, and I was in!"

Chloe felt as if she was going to throw up. Slade was some sort of psycho, she could see that – it turned her stomach to think of what torments he might have put Oliver and the others through.

"I enjoyed getting to know Bart and Victor, I really did," continued Slade, placing the eye back into his pocket. "But I gotta tell you, my favorites have to be Curry and your boy. The half dolphin – he loves himself so much! All that swagger, all that arrogance, but by the end he was screaming like a bitch. And as for your lover boy – well, breaking him was just the sweetest thing! A few minutes and he was bawling like a baby – the hotshot hero, crying and pleading for mercy. You should have been there, Chloe – you should have seen him beg me to stop!"

"You're lying!" snapped Chloe, her eyes flaming with rage. "Oliver would never beg – never!"

"Ohh, he begged – pretty little rich boys always beg!" said Slade, meeting Chloe's gaze. Oliver hadn't broken, of course. For hours Slade had tried, but to no avail – somehow the young hero had managed to withstand everything he'd thrown at him. Slade hated him for that, and now, in some strange way, he felt as if he was getting his own back for Oliver's stubborn refusal to crack. If he couldn't have the Green Arrow's submission, he'd have the next best thing – he'd shatter Chloe's belief in the man she loved.

"I know you're lying," repeated Chloe. "Oliver would never give in to scum like you. Your nothing, do you know that? Nothing!"

Chloe spat the last word out, determined to show that whatever Slade said, she was never going to accept that he had broken Oliver's spirit. Slade, his mask slipping for a moment, appeared overcome with rage. He raised his hand, as if to strike Chloe. She winced, preparing herself for the blow which appeared inevitable. But nothing happened; instead, Slade's laughter once more echoed from Watchtower's walls.

"You're brave, Chloe Sullivan, I give you that," he said, regaining his composure as quickly as he had lost it. "The feisty girl from Smallville, afraid of no one – I'm impressed, really I am."

Chloe scowled up at him. He smiled, reaching out his hand towards her face. Instinctively, she turned away, but it was not enough; gently, sickeningly, he brushed the back of his hand against the side of her cheek.

"You're a beautiful woman, Chloe," he said quietly, taking her chin with his other hand and forcing her to look up into his eyes. "I can see why Queen loves you so much. I wonder what he'd do if he could see you now – here, in his precious Watchtower, all alone with me."

Paralysed with fear, Chloe said nothing. As she stared into the eyes of the cold blooded killer who had taken so much from her, she felt nothing but terror. Helpless, there was nothing she could do to save herself; worse still, she knew that this time, no one was coming to rescue her.

"So this is Watchtower – the lair of the Justice League!"

Both Slade and Chloe turned, to find Lex standing at the entrance to the elevator, flanked by four suited LuthorCorp heavies. Chloe's shoulders sagged in relief as Slade removed his hand from her face; she couldn't help but feel she had had a lucky escape.

"I see you two are getting to know each other!" continued Lex, sweeping into the room. He seemed to almost glow with confidence, savouring this latest triumph over his enemies.

"Interesting choice of decor – but then Oliver never did have much of a sense of style, did he? What did you see in him, Chloe? Oh – I forgot! A billion dollar bank account and a pretty face – a combination to melt the heart of any small town girl from Hicksville, USA."

He came to a halt in front of Chloe. He observed her for a moment, a look of mild amusement on his face. She returned his gaze, staring in mute defiance at the author of the disaster that had befallen her and the ones she loved.

"You look upset, Chloe," he said at last, feigning concern. "Please, don't be – I have no intention of harming you. In fact, I would have been quite happy to allow you a few more days of freedom. It's been most entertaining watching you try to breach LuthorCorp's security systems – I have to say, Watchtower's resources are most impressive."

Still Chloe said nothing, not wishing to give Lex any encouragement. Inwardly her heart sank; it was clear from what he'd said that the secrecy of Watchtower, prized so highly by Oliver and others, had long since been breached.

"Unfortunately, that call you just received has forced me to bring forward my plans. I couldn't have you digging around, you see Chloe – I know how persistent you are, and that was a risk I just could not afford to take. So I had to send in Mr Slade here, to take care of you until I arrived. A great asset to this operation, Mr Slade – as Oliver and his band of freaks can testify."

"You won't get away with this, Lex," said Chloe; she felt impelled to say something, but as she spoke she was all too aware that she had no idea how she was going to make good on her threat.

Lex chuckled. "Is that so? And who's going to stop me, Chloe? Clark? That's what usually happens, isn't it? Clark sweeps in and saves the day. Well not this time, Chloe. You see even as I speak Clark is being taken to one of my more secure facilities, where a number of my most senior scientists are just waiting to get to work on him. It's not every day you get to experiment on an alien from another planet – Kal-El, all the way from Krypton!"

The color drained from Chloe's cheeks. Lex knew Clark's secret – worse, he'd managed to make Clark his prisoner. This couldn't be happening – it just couldn't be happening!

"Yes, Chloe – I know Clark's little secret. I know about the meteor rock, too. The fifth member of Oliver's band of freaks is mine, and that just leaves you. And I don't like loose ends, Chloe – I really don't."

He nodded to one of his goons. The man pulled a syringe from his jacket, and without hesitating plunged it into Chloe's neck. Chloe gasped in surprise, but the drug was fast acting; before she could object she lapsed into unconsciousness, her head falling forwards onto her chest.

"You know where to take her," said Lex. He watched as two of his men lifted Chloe from the chair and began dragging her towards the elevator. He then looked up, for the first time taking in the full extent of Watchtower. It was an impressive operation, he had to admit. For a few seconds he hesitated – was this really the right thing to do? After all, he could use this place, make it the center of _his_ operation. The memory of how Oliver had destroyed so many of his own facilities meant he soon dismissed the thought. Destroying this place was part of his revenge, and besides, he had the most important part of Watchtower – he had Chloe Sullivan.

"Download what you can from these systems, and then set the charges," he ordered, looking at the men who remained. "Use all the explosives – when this place goes up in smoke, I want the whole city to see it."

* * *

_**Four hours later**_

"_Metropolis was rocked by an explosion earlier today, when a building near the center of the city was engulfed by flames. Fire Department officials have said that they believe the building was empty at the time of the explosion, but such was the intensity of the blaze it was impossible to prevent the fire from gutting the tower, for many years a prominent landmark on the city's skyline. The building, thought to have been owned by disgraced billionaire Oliver Queen, was..."_

Lex pressed mute on his remote. He leaned back in his chair, sipping on the single malt that he had just poured for himself. It had been a long day, and not without its surprises, but it was ending in the most satisfying way imaginable. As he watched the TV pictures of flames and smoke billowing from Watchtower, he felt a sense of a job almost complete. The League was finished, its last operative on her way to a secure facility; the destruction of Oliver's secret base, so vividly playing out before his eyes, seemed symbolic of his wider victory. His long journey of revenge was nearly done – only one thing now remained.

He sighed. He did not want to make this call – he had hoped to prolong Oliver's agony for many weeks yet, if not months. But the Warden of Nemesis getting in touch with Chloe meant that his plans had to change. He cursed Galton, whose carelessness was forcing his hand. His only consolation was that he would still have the pleasure of seeing Oliver die – it was just that that event was now days, not weeks, away.

He picked up his cell, and dialled the number.

"Galton – it's Lex Luthor," he began, his tone curt and businesslike. "I don't care what time it is there - just listen. There's been a change of plan... No, the problem is at your end. You boss is on to you... It doesn't matter how – what matters is what we do now. Now listen very carefully – I want you to do exactly what I tell you."

* * *

Chloe captured, and Watchtower destroyed! Sorry to those of you who thought things were about to get better, but you know me - I never miss a chance to pile on the angst. This chapter marks a bit of a turning point in the story - from now on the pace is going to quicken, and the drama and action is going to build. Some big shocks ahead, I promise - I hope you like them!

I have so many ideas floating around inside my head at the moment - at least two more stories are there, if I ever get round to writing them. Thanks so much for reading, and of course a special, special thanks to my reviewers. Please do leave a review if you can - feedback keeps me going more than anything else!


	31. Chapter 31: Chaos Unleashed

**Chapter Thirty One: Chaos Unleashed**

Warden Flynn sat motionless behind his desk, apparently lost in thought. His elbows rested on the work surface, and his hands were clasped together beneath his chin; with eyes that appeared focused on some indeterminate object in the middle distance, he was the very picture of a man with an immense amount on his mind. Hours had passed since he'd made his fateful call to Chloe Sullivan. Even now he wasn't convinced he'd done the right thing. A man who liked to do everything by the book, breaching agency guidelines had not come easily to him, and he consoled himself with the fact that given a woman's life was at stake, he really hadn't had any choice. Now, of course, he faced a far greater challenge – he had to confront Galton.

Flynn loathed Galton. He was everything he despised in a man – arrogant, violent, and corrupt. A bully in uniform, in fact; how he'd managed to rise so high in the service was beyond Flynn's comprehension. He'd wanted to bring him to heel for months, but now that at last he had the opportunity he'd been waiting for he found himself hesitating. Although he didn't like to admit it, he feared Galton. Having to confront him with the evidence of his own criminal behaviour was not something that Flynn could look forward to with any degree of pleasure. He had no idea how the man would react. A denial was almost certain, but what then? How would he play it? Flynn couldn't make up his mind what he feared more – an explosive outburst, such as he'd seen unleashed against many a prisoner over the previous few months, or a calculated rebuttal of the charges that were laid against him, slithering away from blame like an eel evading capture.

There was a knock at the door. Flynn braced himself – the interview he'd been dreading was about to begin.

Before he had time to speak, the door opened, and Galton entered the room. Flynn tried to look as authoritative as possible, sitting up straight in his chair and fixing the other man with a steely gaze which hid the nerves he was feeling inside. The other man returned his stare. He looked strange – Flynn couldn't quite put his finger on what it was, but something didn't feel right...

"Galton, I've called you here because some serious allegations have been made against you," he began, dismissing his feelings of unease and deciding to plough on; he wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible, and he saw no point in holding things up with pointless preliminaries.

"Is that right?" replied Galton. "I guess this must have something to do with that call you made to Queen's bitch in Metropolis. Big mistake, that – _big_ mistake."

"How do you know about that?" said Flynn, taken aback; he'd rehearsed this encounter many times in his head, but not once had he anticipated this.

"I know a lot of things, Flynn," replied Galton, a thin smile forming on his lips. "I run Nemesis, remember? No one so much as takes a piss in this place and I don't know about it."

Flynn's face flushed with anger. The overt challenge to his authority was bad enough; Galton's insolence was just too much.

"Well if you know so much about Nemesis, what I'm about to tell you won't come as a surprise," he said curtly, struggling to contain his rising sense of indignation at the other man's behaviour. "I'm suspending you, Galton, pending an investigation into allegations of bribery and corruption. With the evidence I've got, you'll be lucky to get away with dismissal – if I have my way, you'll do time for what you've done. You shame that uniform, Galton, and I hope they throw the book at you."

Flynn spoke quickly, a mixture of nerves and irritation getting the better of him. His outburst over, he waited for the other man's response, beads of perspiration forming on his forehead. When it came, however, it was not at all what he'd expected.

"No, I can't allow that," said Galton calmly, his voice steady and assured.

"What do you mean, you can't allow it?" responded Flynn incredulously. "I'm in charge here, Galton, and if I say you're suspended, you're suspended. Now hand over your badge – I'm confining you to your quarters until further notice."

"You can't do that, Warden. Not when there's a riot on – Nemesis needs leadership."

"A riot? What riot?"

"The riot I'm about to start, Warden."

The words were not uttered by Galton, but by the man who now stood in the doorway to his office. Flynn's jaw dropped – there, unguarded and grinning from ear to ear, was the unmistakable figure of Smith.

"What the hell is this?" exclaimed Flynn, looking from one man to the other. "Why is this man not in his cell? Galton, I..."

"Shut your mouth!" hissed Galton. He looked different now; his features were harder, his eyes glinting with a mixture of excitement and resolution. "You and your agency guidelines – you're full of shit, you know that? I'm the one who runs this place – not you, stuck here in your office. There's no way I'm going to stand by and let you take this from me – not after everything I've done."

"Galton, I don't know what this is about, but you need to calm down," said Flynn. Suddenly, he felt very afraid; he had no idea what was going on, but instinctively he knew he was in great danger...

"You shouldn't have interfered," said Galton, reaching for his gun and carefully withdrawing it from its holster. "If you'd not made that call, none of this would have been necessary. But it's too late now – there's no going back."

Flynn stared down the barrel of Galton's gun. Eyes wide with terror, he opened his mouth to speak. No words came; instead a single gunshot reverberated around the room. Flynn slumped forwards onto the desk, a pool of blood which ran from the wound in his head staining his papers a deep shade of red.

"Why Officer Galton, I do believe you have killed our beloved Warden!" said Smith sarcastically, walking over to Flynn's corpse and puling his head from the desk. The man's eyes were still wide open, his disbelief writ large all over his face; only the bullet hole in the center of his forehead made clear the shocking reality of what had just taken place.

Galton did not reply. He stared at his former boss, not quite believing what he'd done. He'd passed the point of no return now – he was committed to Luthor's audacious plan, whether he liked it or not.

"The first victim of the Nemesis riot – something tells me there's gonna be a hell of a lot more before this thing is over," continued Smith, studying Flynn's corpse with an almost ghoulish fascination. "How long did you say I've got? Two days?"

"Forty-eight hours – then the relief units will arrive and lock this place down," said Galton, turning away from the sight of Flynn's dead body. He moved over to a computer terminal at the side of the room, which gave him access to the Nemesis network.

Smith didn't appear to be listening. He continued to stare intently at Flynn's face, absorbed by the warden's death mask.

"And my way out of this place – is that all arranged?" he said at last, allowing Flynn's skull to slip from his grasp and turning towards Galton.

"All arranged – don't worry, Lex Luthor has organised everything."

"That's good, because I'd hate to think that you and Luthor were double-crossing me. You wouldn't do that, would you, Galton? Not after all we've been through together."

Galton looked up, and the two men stared at each other for a moment. Smith continued to smile broadly, but his dead eyes told a different story. Galton understood; any betrayal, and Smith would make him pay – wherever he was.

"You can trust me, Smith. Just stick to your side of the bargain, and we'll get you out – you have my word."

"And Queen – I can't kill him?"

"Luthor couldn't be clearer – if Oliver Queen dies, the deal's off. But you can have fun with him – I told Luthor you wouldn't have any trouble thinking up ways to make our hero's final days at Nemesis as memorable as possible."

Smith laughed. "I'm looking forward to meeting this guy Luthor – something tells me we are gonna get along just fine!"

Galton turned back to the keyboard and started to type in access codes. "When the security systems go offline you'll have the run of the entire facility, except Block G – that's where me and my men will be."

"You're gonna leave me with some of your boys, remember? If you want this to look real, you're gonna need more than one warden with his brains blown out."

"Don't worry – you'll have your fun," said Galton grimly as he continued to type. He knew that in the hours to come, many of the men who have served him loyally would lose their lives. It wasn't going to be pretty, but it was a price that had to be paid if the plan was to work. He felt no particular attachment to those who were about to die – in his eyes they were little better than the animals they kept caged, and Lex's money was more than enough to silence any nagging doubts.

"It's done," he said, leaning back in his chair. "In ten minutes the system goes offline."

"And then Nemesis is mine," said Smith, completing the sentence. His eyes flashed with an almost manic excitement, like a rabid dog that was about to be let off its leash. Galton felt his stomach tighten – he knew what was coming, and was glad that he would see nothing of the hell that this man and his thugs were about to wreak on the unsuspecting facility.

"The code for the armoury is 45820034," said Galton, getting up from his chair. "Take this key – you'll need it to get past the first door."

Smith took the key, clasping it tightly in his hand as if it was the key to the castle. "See you in two days," he said, apparently eager to get away. He turned as if to leave, but then hesitated, looking back at the other man.

"And don't forget our deal, Galton."

"And don't you forget what we agreed about Queen."

Smith smiled – a thin, twisted smile, wreathed in insincerity.

"Ohhh, don't worry about leather boy – I'm gonna take real good care of him."

Smirking, Smith turned and exited the room. Alone, Galton turned, to find himself confronted by the grotesque sight of Flynn's corpse slumped awkwardly across the desk. He still couldn't quite believe this was happening. When Luthor had told him how they were going to deal with the problem of the warden he had been shocked. It seemed so extreme, so incredible, that at first he'd refused to go along with it. An offer of extra money and a reminder that if Flynn went public with what he knew then Galton would probably face jail time had quashed his objections. The plan was deceptively simple – the warden would be silenced, his murder hidden in the anarchy of a prison riot. Luthor had been very precise about every detail, down to the timing of the riot and who was to lead it. Above all, of course, Queen was to be kept alive – as long as that happened, Luthor didn't care about the rest. It was clear that he was saving the vigilante for some other fate, only known to himself. He'd explained about Smith, about how the man could not be trusted, but Lex had dismissed his concerns, convinced that the promise of freedom would be enough to ensure his cooperation. Galton was not so sure - Smith was a psychopath, a man who revelled in the thrill of power and the infliction of physical pain on his victims. To him, Oliver Queen was like all his birthdays rolled into one – a prize so tempting he would not be able to resist.

He'd seen the look in Smith's eyes as he'd taken the key to the armoury. It was a hungry look – the look not just of a man who was looking forward to the hunt, but who would settle for nothing less than a kill.

If Oliver Queen survived the next forty-eight hours, it would be nothing short of a miracle.

* * *

Roy hurried down the corridor towards the infirmary, the alarms sounding shrill and insistent in his ears. He'd been resting in his room when the sirens had awoken him; uncertain what was happening, his first instinct was to find the doctor. It normally took two minutes to cover the short distance to the infirmary, the time taken normally lengthened by a security check. This time, however, there was no check; the guard who was normally on duty was nowhere to be seen. It was the first time that Roy had not known a guard to be manning the entrance to the wing which housed the infirmary, a fact which added to his sense of unease. Something was wrong – and his instincts told him that whatever it was, it was connected to what he'd told the warden earlier in the day.

Entering the infirmary, he found the doctor standing by his desk, anxiety etched into his features.

"What's happening?" he asked.

"I don't know – I've been trying to get through to someone on the phone, but no one's answering."

"The guard's gone as well," said Roy. The two men exchanged glances; both were beginning to suspect that somewhere in Nemesis, something very bad was taking place.

"Do you think someone's tried to escape?" asked Roy tentatively, searching for an explanation.

"Escape to where? Nemesis is eighty miles from the nearest settlement, and even if you did make it to a village the first person you met would hand you in to the North Korean police. No, everyone knows that escape from Nemesis is impossible. This is something else – I just don't know what."

There was silence for a moment, neither man knowing what to do next.

"Can you access the security systems from your computer?" asked Roy at last, sensing an opportunity to find out more about what was happening. "You could logon on to the surveillance cameras – see what's happening."

"Yes... yes, that's a good idea," replied the doctor, moving swiftly to his keyboard. The entry of a few access codes and they quickly accessed the network. The first images revealed nothing untoward, just blurry images of empty corridors in various parts of complex. The sixth camera, however, displayed a picture which stopped both men dead in their tracks.

"Oh my God..." gasped the doctor, peering more closely at the screen. He'd hoped he was wrong, and that the grainy blur in the bottom right hand corner of the screen was not what he thought it was. Unfortunately, the picture left no room for doubt; there, blood oozing from a gaping head wound, was the lifeless body of a guard, splayed awkwardly across the floor.

The next picture was even more shocking. It provided a live feed from the cavernous central hall of the main block, hundreds of cells lined up either side of the long main aisle along which Oliver had walked just a few days earlier. The camera was mounted on the ceiling and gave a panoramic view of almost the entire space. Inmates could be seen running wild, chairs and tables being smashed up in acts of wanton destruction. Far more terrifying was the sight of guards being set upon by mobs of prisoners. They appeared wholly overwhelmed; outnumbered and defenceless, they were being subjected to ferocious beatings. Some bodies could be seen in the corner of the screen, lying unmoving on the ground. If there was any doubt as to their fate, that was settled by the sight of one guard kneeling in the center of the hall. Surrounded and with no way to escape, he appeared resigned to his fate, which came with stunning speed. The doctor and Roy could only look on aghast as one of the prisoners took what appeared to be a gun of some sort and pressed it against the guard's head. There was no sound, so they did not hear the shot; all they saw was the man fall forward, obviously dead.

The two stood for a few moments, transfixed by the horror that was unfolding before their eyes. Nemesis appeared to be engulfed by a wave of rage and violence, all order and discipline gone. The guards had lost control, and the riot showed no signs of abating.

Suddenly, in the relative tranquillity of the infirmary, they both felt very alone – and very vulnerable.

"We need to get to Block G – we'll be safe there," said the doctor, moving swiftly towards the door and grabbing his coat. The color had drained from his face, and Roy could see the fear in his eyes.

"Why Block G? Why don't we just stay here until this all blows over?"

"If they're in the main block, then this place isn't secure. Block G is the designated secure zone in the event of a riot like this – we need to get there fast."

Roy hesitated, something clearly on his mind.

"Roy, come on!" said the doctor impatiently, standing by the door. "They could be here any minute – we have to go!"

"We need to find Oliver," replied Roy. "If they find him, he's as good as dead."

"Queen will have to take his chances, Roy – there isn't time!"

"I'm going after him, doc. I can't just leave him – not after what he did for me."

The doctor looked at Roy for a moment. He felt frustrated, but also proud- proud that the young man who he put so much faith in was prepared to put his life on the line for another.

"Here, take this," he said finally, throwing Roy an electronic key card; he knew he wasn't going to change the teenager's mind, and was determined to do all he could to help him succeed in his mission. "It will get you into the solitary wing. You'll find the keys to the cells in the guard's room, locked in the safe – the combination is 345129."

"Thanks, doc."

"Take care of yourself, Roy – good assistants are hard to find, you know."

Roy smiled. "I will."

The doctor turned, before disappearing out of the door. Roy hesitated for a moment, before he too left the safety of the infirmary. Unlike the doctor, he turned right, and headed off in the direction of the solitary wing.

* * *

His heart thumping in his chest, Roy inserted the key card into the electronic lock. There was a clunking sound as the heavy bolts slid back inside the door, before a green light indicated that he was free to enter. It had only taken him a couple of minutes to make his way from the infirmary, the complete absence of guards speeding his journey. Now, as he pushed open the heavy steel door, he began to feel increasingly anxious. He felt very alone, and knew only too well that if he were discovered here would be no way out; this was the only entrance to the solitary wing, and once inside he could easily be trapped, his escape routes blocked off. He only hoped that he wasn't too late, and that Oliver was still alive.

As soon as stepped through the door he froze. He could hear voices – raised, ugly voices, voices that were pumped up with a mixture of freedom and power. Roy's heart leapt into his throat – they were here already! As quietly as he could, he began to move down the passage in the direction of the noise. He passed by an open door to his left. Inside, he could see the bodies of three guards; they were all dead, their bodies beaten so much they were almost unrecognisable. Sweat running down his forehead, Roy pressed on. He knew the danger he was in, the fact that within seconds he could end up just like those guards. Somehow that didn't matter – what mattered was trying to save the life of a friend. He couldn't abandon Oliver, and if he died trying at least his life would have had some meaning after all.

He turned a corner. The voices were clearer now, and as he listened he could hear that they had found Oliver. Laughter and abuse mixed with the occasional gasp of agony, as presumably Oliver's tormentors beat their prey. Roy could see shadows moving in a cell up on the right. He edged forward, cautiously daring to peek inside. Three men stood with their backs to him. Beyond them, he could just make out Oliver; it looked as if he was chained to the wall, and so was unable to protect himself from the iron bar which the man in the center was using to torture him. As he watched, the man drove the bar hard into Oliver's gut. Oliver cried out, doubling up in agony; he appeared exhausted, as if the beating had been going on for some time.

"Had enough yet, he-ro?" jeered the man who had hit Oliver, grabbing him by the hair and pulling his head upwards. "Cos I'm just getting started, boy – next I'm gonna smash up that pretty little face of yours!"

It was the last thing the man said, before suddenly he found himself flying through the air. He hit the stone wall with an almighty thud, before sliding to the floor unconscious. For a split second the other two men stood rooted to the spot, not quite understanding what had happened. Roy didn't hesitate. His flying kick had taken out the first man, causing the iron bar to clatter to the floor. Diving between the other two men, he made a grab for it. Too late, one of the men realised what was happening; he lunged at Roy, only to stagger backwards, blood pouring from his mouth due to a powerful kick from Roy's foot. Roy then flew at the other man, bringing the bar crashing down on his head. He fell to the ground, obviously out for the count. Roy then spun round and hit the first man with the bar; he too fell to the ground, blood now pouring from a second wound.

Roy stood for a moment, breathing heavily. All three men lay on the floor; he looked at them closely, but none showed any signs of life.

"Not bad, kid – if I ever get out of this place, I could use a guy like you."

Roy turned around, to find Oliver smiling at him. He looked tired and his voice was weak, but otherwise he didn't appear too badly hurt.

"Are you okay?" said Roy, dropping the iron bar and taking the few steps to where Oliver stood, shackled to the wall.

"I've felt better," replied Oliver, a wry smile still on his lips. "I was just catching up on some shut-eye, when these three jokers burst in. What the hell is happening? Where are the guards?"

"They've lost control. It's crazy out there – they're ripping the place apart. Some of the guards are dead – everyone else is hiding out in the secure zone in Block G."

"And you thought you'd come and rescue me?"

"Hey, it seemed like a good idea at the time – now I'm not so sure," answered Roy, the grin on his face signalling that he was joking. "Besides, guys like us – we need to stick together, right?"

"Thanks, man," said Oliver, his voice suddenly sincere and earnest. "You saved my life."

"Thank me later," said Roy, embarrassed by Oliver's words of gratitude. "Because if I can't find the key to these cuffs, you're going nowhere."

"Maybe I can help with that."

Both men turned in the direction of the voice. There, standing in the doorway to the cell, stood Smith, flanked by four other prisoners. Each was armed with a gun, and all were aiming straight at Oliver and Roy.

"Not going somewhere, are you boys?" asked Smith softly, his eyes flashing with anticipation. "Because the party's just getting started – and we'd hate for our guest of honor not to show!"

* * *

If you think things look bad for Oliver - you're right! Lots of danger, angst and drama ahead, I promise, and not just for Ollie - Chloe and at least one member of the Justice League will be back in the next couple of chapters. I hope this chapter surprised you, because I like to keep you guessing. I enjoyed developing Roy a little bit more - Ollie needs a heroic sidekick, especially with all the danger he's in. Whether he can help him now, you'll just have to wait and see...

Thanks for reading, and as always a special thanks to those who take the time to review. YOU are the reason this story is here - and I can't say thankyou enough. Please do review if you can - it is always great to get your views, and be inspired to write some more!


	32. Chapter 32 To the Death

**Chapter Thirty Two: To the Death**

_**Warning: Major Ollie Whump ahead**_

"_Not going somewhere, are you boys? Because the party's just getting started – and we'd hate for our guest of honor not to show!"_

Roy didn't hesitate. Acting on instinct, he launched himself in Smith's direction, throwing all of his weight behind a flying kick aimed at the other man's chest. This time, however, his luck had run out. Smith neatly sidestepped Roy's attack, before a blow to the side of his head sent him crashing to the ground. Roy struggled to get back on his feet, but it was too late; hands pinioned his legs to the ground, whilst a heavy boot placed on his neck made any further resistance impossible. Lying on his stomach, he felt his hands being forced into the small of his back, before a pair of steel cuffs were locked in place.

"Get him up."

The sound of Smith's voice filled Roy with dread. More than most, he knew what this man was capable of, and now once more he found himself totally at his mercy. Roughly he was pulled upwards, his head swimming from the effects of the blow to his skull just moments earlier.

"Careful with him, boys!" said Smith. "We wouldn't want to mess up that pretty little face of his, now would we?"

The men let Roy go. He stood for a moment, swaying slightly as his head struggled to adjust to being upright once more. Then, without warning, he felt an arm snake across his chest. He tried to get free, but it was too late; the arm pulled him backwards, locking him tightly against the body of the man who now held his life in his hands.

"Have you missed me, Roy?" whispered Smith, his lips just inches from the other man's ear. "Because I've missed you – I've missed you _so_ much!"

Sickened, Roy tried to pull away. Smith pulled a knife and pressed it against his throat; like a predator with its prey in its jaws, he seemed poised for the kill.

"You've been a bad boy, Roy," continued Smith, tightening his grip around his chest. "Running away to the infirmary like that – and after all I'd done to look after you! Still, that's all behind us now, right? Now you and me can be together again. You'd like that, wouldn't you Roy? You'd like me to look after you again?"

As Smith spoke he seemed to edge closer and closer, so that his mouth was barely a fraction of an inch from Roy's ear. He spoke so quietly he was almost inaudible, but the look of utter terror on Roy's face made the true meaning of his words all too clear. Eyes wide with fear and with sweat running down his face, he appeared paralysed; the fearless fighter of moments earlier had been replaced by the sight of someone who knew that he was about to relive a nightmare he'd hoped he'd left behind forever.

"Please...," said Roy, squeezing his eyes shut as if he could will his ordeal to end. "Please, I..."

"Sssshhhhhh," said Smith, silencing his prisoner by placing the knife against his lips. "I know you're sorry, Roy, but you have been a bad boy. And you know what happens to bad boys, don't you? Bad boys have to be punished."

"You sick bastard – let him go!"

Smith glanced across at Oliver. The young hero was pulling against his chains, trying to get free; angry at his inability to help his friend, he could only scowl at their tormentor.

Smith grinned – a sick, twisted grin, enough to turn Oliver's stomach. He was in complete control, and he knew it. There was no way he was going to bring this game to an end any time soon – he was enjoying himself far too much.

"Looks like your new friend wants to break us up, Roy," he said, slowly dragging the tip of the knife across Roy's cheek and down his neck. "But don't worry – I'm going to take care of leather boy over there. And once he's dead, well - then I'll be able to give you my undivided attention."

Choked with terror, Roy did not respond. Glancing across at Oliver, Smith then pressed his lips against Roy's cheek. The kiss that followed was the antithesis of love; it was a kiss of power, of ownership, of control. Oliver roared with anger, pulling at the chains with all the strength he could muster. Smith just laughed. He could see that the bond between the two men was strong, and he enjoyed seeing the once all conquering archer reduced to the level of an impotent spectator. The hors d'oeuvre over, it was time to move on to the main course.

"You know what to do with him," he said, relinquishing his grip on Roy and pushing him into the arms of one of his men. "And no touching – he's mine, remember?"

Grabbing Roy by the scruff of the neck, the man shoved him out of the door. Oliver tried to catch his friend's eye but found his line of sight blocked by Smith, who now squared up in front of him.

"You sick fuck!" hissed Oliver, his eyes flaming with fury. "Where are you taking him?"

Smith did not answer, but instead drove his fist hard into Oliver's gut. Oliver doubled over in agony, only for Smith to grab a handful of his hair and pull him upwards. Smith then smashed Oliver's head hard against the stone wall, causing the young hero to cry out in pain.

"Did I say you could talk!" he shouted, taking his gun and viciously thrusting its barrel deep into Oliver's mouth. He pushed it upwards, forcing Oliver's head back. The tip of the barrel sliced into the roof of Oliver's mouth; blood mixed with the taste of metal, and the hard steel jarred against his teeth.

The two men glared at each other for a moment. Smith's finger hovered over the trigger of the gun, his eyes wide and intense; he was pumped up, a murderous high of adrenalin surging through his veins. He wanted to see fear in the other man's eyes, to feel the rush of power that came from knowing that he held the power of life and death over another. He was to be disappointed; beads of sweat ran down Oliver's face, but his eyes sparkled with defiance, as if he were daring his tormentor to pull the trigger.

"You think you're so tough, don't you Queen?" sneered Smith, pushing the gun further down Oliver's throat. "Well let me tell you something, boy – in here you are nothing, do you here? _Nothing_. I could blow your head off now with just one squeeze of this trigger – splatter that pretty little head of yours all over this wall. Would you like that, he-ro? Eh? Would you like that?"

Smith edged closer, his body just inches from his prey. He wanted an answer – he wanted to hear Oliver beg.

Oliver, however, had other ideas. He swore, grunting his defiance as best he could as the gun continued to fill his mouth. Riled by the hero's apparent courage in the face of death, Smith snapped; pulling the gun from Oliver's mouth, he brought its butt down hard on the defenceless man's head.

"You want to die, Queen?" he shouted, unable to contain his frustration. "Ohhhh, you'll die – but not before I've had some fun with you. I'm gonna make you suffer, boy – I'm gonna make you wish you'd never been born!"

Breathing hard, Smith stepped back and nodded to the men who stood waiting at the door. They moved forward, one of them taking the key to the chains which shackled Oliver to the wall. Still reeling from the blow to his head, Oliver was able to offer no resistance as first he was released from the steel manacles which encircled his wrists, before his arms were forced behind his back and new cuffs were applied. One of the men then shoved him forwards, so that he came face to face with Smith once more.

"Time for us to play a game, leather boy," he sneered, his composure now partially restored. "Would you like that? Would you like to play a game?"

Oliver spat on the floor, a mixture of blood and saliva landing just a few inches from Smith's boot. He then looked the other man in the eye, fixing him with a steely gaze.

"Bring it on!" he whispered.

* * *

It took five minutes for Smith and his thugs to lead Oliver to the main cell block. The sight that greeted them there was like a vision of hell. The place looked like a war zone; smashed tables and chairs littered the floor, many thrown from the walkways high above. Wherever you looked, prisoners were on the rampage. It seemed as if there were hundreds of them, smashing and destroying whatever they could find. The noise was unbearable. Screams and shouts filled the air, producing a bestial cacophony that could not fail to strike fear into whoever heard it. As Oliver looked he saw bodies lying on the floor, surrounded by pools of blood. Some were dressed in prison uniforms, the victims of a terrible settling of scores by other inmates. Most, however, were guards, their wounds bearing witness to the terrible beatings they had received before they had been put out of their misery.

Oliver swallowed hard, fixing his features into a look of grim resolution. Released from their cages, the worst of America were running wild, free to vent their fury on the system that had sought to contain them. What they would do to him, he could only imagine.

Smith stepped forward, eager to take control. The next few minutes mapped out in his imagination, he could not wait to begin.

"Look who's here, boys!" he shouted, his booming voice sounding loud and clear over the chaos. "Our favorite hero wants to join the party – how's about we show him some hospitality, Nemesis style!"

All eyes turned towards Oliver. A great roar of approval filled the giant hall, as six hundred bloodthirsty killers realised that their collective dream had come true. The Green Arrow, a man who had put many of them behind bars and who for the others was a symbol of all they despised and hated in the world, was theirs, bound and at their mercy. It was a terrifying sound, the sound of a mob that was hungry for revenge. What's more, it did not stop. It seemed to grow and grow, as the men picked up whatever they could – metal bars, chair legs, anything they could lay their hands on – and began to beat the bars of the cells that once held them. The effect was deafening – not just a wall of sound, but a wall of pure hate.

Smith stood at Oliver's side, a look of manic glee in his eyes.

"Afraid, Queen?" he shouted into Oliver's ear, just about making himself heard. "The boys are looking forward to you putting on a real good show – now don't you go disappointing them, yeah?"

He then shoved Oliver forwards. Oliver stumbled and then came to a halt, before the unmistakable press of a gun barrel in the small of his back told him that his captor wanted him to keep on walking. He was marched further down the long hall, the prisoners forming up on either side of his route. Just as he'd done when he'd first arrived, Oliver kept his eyes fixed firmly on the wall at the far end. He could feel countless pairs of eyes boring into him, searching him for any sign of fear. He was damned if he was going to give them the satisfaction; whatever he was feeling inside, outwardly he stood tall, his features fixed with flint-like resolve. If he was going to die, he was going to die a hero – the man his team looked up to, the man Chloe loved.

"That's far enough," ordered Smith, bringing Oliver to a halt about half way down the long hall. Looking up, Oliver could see countless men crowding the raised walkways above him, straining to get a good view. All around, too, the men were forming up, a solid wall of humanity surrounding him and quashing any lingering hope of escape. The crowd had gathered, expectant and excited – all that remained now was for Smith to reveal just exactly what "game" he had in mind.

"So here he is, Oliver Queen, the mighty Green Arrow!" he began, addressing his audience like a ringmaster at the circus. "The handsome billionaire, the all conquering vigilante, the leather clad fighter for truth, justice and the American way!"

Smith's words dripped with sarcasm. The men laughed – Smith knew how to work a crowd, and they were enjoying seeing a man they once feared humbled in this way.

"But see how our hero has fallen! A convicted killer, locked up here with us. No money, no gadgets, no friends – all he's got left is a pair of leather pants and a pretty face!"

More laughter. Oliver gritted his teeth – if Smith was looking to get a reaction, he was damned if he was going to provide it.

"A poor little rich boy, on his knees and begging for mercy!" continued Smith, driving his fist into Oliver's gut. Oliver doubled over, before Smith brought the butt of his gun down hard on his back. Unable to recover, Oliver fell to his knees, and once again the crowd roared its approval.

"So what shall we do with him, boys?" asked Smith, grabbing Oliver by the hair and pulling his head upwards as if it were some kind of trophy. "What shall we do with the hero the world doesn't want anymore?"

A storm of shouts and abuse followed. It was impossible to make out what any individual was saying, but the general message was unmistakable – they wanted Oliver's blood.

"Boys, boys, give the guy a break!" exclaimed Smith, feigning concern for his captive. "Let's at least give our hero here a chance, yeah? How's about we see how tough he really is, without all those fancy bows and arrows to protect him?"

Letting go of Oliver's hair, Smith stepped back and signalled to his men. Two of them grabbed Oliver by the arms, hauling him to his feet. Still woozy after Smith's attack, Oliver swayed a little, before recovering his balance. To his surprise, he could feel the cuffs being removed from his wrists; it didn't take him long to understand why.

Ahead of him the wall of prisoners parted, and a man was thrust forwards. It was one of the guards; a big man, he looked terrified, his head darting this way and that as he searched for where the next blow might come from. He looked badly beat up, with blood running from a deep cut above his right eye.

"It's fight night, boys!" announced Smith, springing up onto a chair. "In the green corner, we have our very own celeb, the Emerald Archer!"

With a flourish, Smith gestured in Oliver's direction. Again, there was a roar of approval; the crowd, like Oliver, understood all too well where this was leading.

"And in the red corner, his opponent – everyone's favorite screw, Mr Benton!"

Another roar. Smith was in his element; the scenario he'd planned for was playing out just as he'd expected.

"The rules in this fight are simple. The winner lives – the loser dies!"

A crescendo of shouting greeted Smith's final words of introduction. The men began to beat the bars of the cells once more, eager to play their part in building the atmosphere for the fight to come. They wanted to be entertained – all that remained now was for the two reluctant gladiators to fight.

"No weapons, boys," said Smith, looking first at Oliver and then at the guard. "And no rules."

He paused, as if waiting for a response. "Well, what are you waiting for? Fight!"

Neither Oliver nor the other man moved. The guard looked liked a trapped rat; sweating profusely, his eyes flitted from Oliver to Smith and back again, trying desperately to find a way out. Oliver, his features fixed, turned and glared at Smith.

"I won't fight," he said simply.

Angered by Oliver's response, the men hurled abuse at him. Smith, however, appeared unfazed. He pulled his gun from his belt and pointed it straight at Oliver's head.

"Ohh, you'll fight," he said firmly. "You'll fight, or I'll blow your fucking brains out."

Oliver didn't flinch. "Then do it – because there is no way in hell I'm going to play your sick little game."

Smith frowned. Oliver had called his bluff, and for a moment he was uncertain about what to do. He didn't want to kill Oliver – that would ruin his fun. Then it came to him – a way to make his reluctant captive comply.

Suddenly he turned the gun on the guard. "Fight, or I'll kill both of you – starting with him."

For a split second nobody moved. All around the men were baying for blood, but in the makeshift arena the three men were locked in a silent battle of wills. Smith appeared to have played his ace – the question was how would Oliver respond?

In the event it was neither Smith nor Oliver who broke the deadlock. The guard, believing he was just seconds away from death, cracked. He charged at Oliver, hoping to catch him off balance. The crowd whooped its approval as it appeared that the fight they had been waiting for was at last about to begin. Oliver, however, had other ideas. Despite the many beatings he'd been subjected to, his reflexes were still second to none. He easily sidestepped the other man's awkward lunge, before grabbing him and twisting his arm behind his back.

"Don't do this!" he shouted, trying to make the guard understand. "I don't want to fight you!"

The guard wasn't listening. He was playing Smith's game, and as far as he was concerned he was locked in a fight to the death – it was either kill, or be killed. Using his free arm he rammed his elbow backwards. It hit Oliver square in the gut; he staggered backwards, momentarily winded. Free once more, the guard spun round, delivering a roundhouse kick to Oliver's head which sent the young hero crashing to the floor. The crowd roared with delight, urging the guard on. He needed no encouragement; he flung himself on Oliver, clasping his hands around his neck. Oliver barely had time to recover from the blow which had felled him before he felt the other man's hands tighten around his throat, choking off the supply of air to his lungs. He tried to cry out, to reason with the man, but it was no use; the words would not come, and looking up he could see that the guard was hellbent on finishing what he'd started. Realising he had very little time, Oliver didn't hesitate. His arms were still free, and summoning up his last reserves of strength he balled his fists and drove them hard into his attacker's throat. It was a move he picked up during a visit to the Far East, designed to target an area of weakness down the front of the neck. He'd never used it in anger before, but mercifully it worked; this time it was the guard who was left reeling, clutching his hands to his throat and crying out in agony. Oliver pushed him away, causing him to roll over onto his side. Moments later it was all over; Oliver stood victorious, the other man lying helpless before him.

His chest heaving, Oliver scowled at Smith. He hated the fact that he'd been forced to fight by the other man's loss of nerve, not wanting to give his captor anything of what he wanted.

"Not bad, leather boy," sneered Smith. "Now finish what you started – kill him."

"Go to hell!" said Oliver. Pumped up on adrenalin, he lunged at his captor. It was an instinctive act, born of frustration and anger, but one he immediately came to regret. Before he could reach his target one of Smith's goons stepped forward, blocking his way; two well placed blows, one to the stomach and one to the head, sent Oliver crashing to his knees.

"Looks like our winner doesn't want to play by the rules," said Smith, stepping down from his makeshift podium and addressing his audience. "So what shall we do with him, boys? What shall we do with our very own he-ro here?"

He grabbed a clump of Oliver's hair, pulling the exhausted vigilante's head up from the ground. Oliver looked dazed, almost out of it; after the exertions of the fight, the blows which had brought him to his knees had finally pushed him to breaking point.

"Kill them – kill the bastards!" shouted a voice from somewhere in the crowd. Immediately other voices joined in, each one demanding death for the two men who had just fought so desperately for survival. Within seconds the noise was deafening, countless voices merging together into one, terrifying chant:

"Kill him! Kill him!"

Smith smiled – he'd had his fun, but now it was time to take it to a different level. Without saying a word, he just held his hands up in the air and shrugged his shoulders, a gesture indicating his acceptance of the crowd's wishes. It was the sign that the crowd had been waiting for. Some of the men surged forward, grabbing both Oliver and the hapless guard and pulling them to their feet. Both men were too weak to resist as their arms were pulled roughly behind their backs and their hands tied tightly. They were then dragged forwards, into the baying mob. Blows rained down on them as they were pulled along. Disorientated and unable to shield themselves, there was little they could do to protect themselves; all they could do was allow themselves to be guided forward, cursed and spat at by a group of men whose rage seemed to sweep away all signs of humanity. It was a hellish sight, but nothing compared to what was to happen next.

Suddenly the hands that had dragged them forwards forced them to a halt. Oliver was vaguely aware that he was standing at the side of the hall, just a foot or so from the bars of one of the cell doors. He was aware of movement above him, and then something thick and coarse being looped over his neck. The hands that held him firmly in their grip then spun him round, and out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of the guard. He too had something looped around his neck – a thick rope, shaped like a noose...

Immediately Oliver started to struggle violently against his captors, twisting first this way and then the other as he desperately tried to escape their vice-like grip. It was no use. One of the men tightened the rope around his neck, the others cheering him on.

Oliver knew what was going to happen. They were about to lynch him, and there was nothing he could do about it.

In a few seconds, he'd be dead.

* * *

Is this the end for Ollie? Will Roy save the day - or will Ollie save Roy? And what's happened to Chloe? All this (and the return of at least one member of the JLA) in the next few chapters.

Hope you enjoyed this one. It's one of the most intense I've written, and I hope I've managed to create in your mind the desperate atmosphere in that prison. Please do leave a review if you can - the last chapter didn't seem as popular as some others, and as my life gets busy again some encouragement to write would really mean a lot. You have the power to make me very happy - please use it!


	33. Chapter 33: Never Ending Torment

**Chapter Thirty Three: Never-ending Torment **

Oliver knew he was dying.

The rope around his neck, the rope that held him four or five feet off the ground, was slowly strangling the life out of him. His chest was on fire, his lungs crying out for air; he desperately needed to take a breath, but it was impossible. He could feel the skin on his face begin to burn, his eyes bulge in their sockets. He wanted to reach up, to claw away at the noose and create that precious breathing space, but he couldn't; his hands were useless, tied tightly behind his back. Only his legs were free, and so he kicked out wildly, searching for something, anything, which might take his weight. It was hopeless, of course; his feet simply slid down the bars of the cell behind him, unable to get a grip. Somewhere, he could hear laughter. He didn't look down, but instead closed his eyes. If he was to die, he didn't want his last memory to be of the baying thugs that now surrounded him, revelling in his death throes. He wanted to remember good times, the precious moments he'd shared with the woman who had given his life more meaning than he had ever thought possible.

He'd stopped kicking now. His body was beginning to shut down, its torments seemingly at an end. With what few reserves of mental strength he had remaining to him, he concentrated, trying to summon up her image in his mind. For a few moments she would not come, the blackness refusing to clear. He panicked – surely now, at the end, he wouldn't be denied one last glimpse of that beautiful face, the face that had melted his heart? Then, relief, as out of the mists of his mind she emerged, smiling that irresistible smile. She was reaching out to him, calling to him, telling him she loved him. He could sense her presence, her warm breath on his skin like balm to his battered body. He needed to tell her – tell her just one last time...

_I love you, Chloe... I love you so much!_

Her eyes told him that she'd heard – they seemed to sparkle even more brightly, reassuring him that everything would be alright. And then she began to fade away, back into the mists of his mind from which she had emerged. His head began to spin, as quickly he started to slip into the unconsciousness that would lead to death. He didn't fight it; his final wish fulfilled, it was time to surrender to the inevitable...

A few feet away, Smith watched as Oliver teetered on the brink of oblivion. He'd killed many men, but never like this; even in a mind inured to pain and torture there was something truly shocking about seeing a man hang. The hoisting of the body into the air, the roar of the crowd, the grotesque twitching as the helpless victim struggled vainly for a release that would never come – the sights excited him, gave him a thrill like nothing else he'd ever experienced. He wanted it to go on, for the buzz he was feeling to continue, but it was clear it was all coming to an end. Oliver had stopped moving, as rapidly his life force began to ebb away. Smith wasn't ready for that, wasn't ready to allow Oliver to slip from his grasp so easily. It was all too quick – he wanted more, to inflict still further torment on the hero who now hovered close to death. It was time to intervene – before it was too late.

A burst of machine gun fire echoed off the walls of the hall. Everyone turned, to find Smith once more standing on a chair, his weapon held aloft.

"Fun's over, boys," he declared. "Cut leather boy down – the archer's won a stay of execution."

Three of Smith's men forced their way through the crowd. One grabbed Oliver's legs, immediately relieving the tension around the young hero's neck as the others began to cut through the rope that just seconds before had threatened to asphyxiate him. It didn't take them long to release him, allowing his body to fall lifeless to the floor.

"Put him in that cell," ordered Smith. His men did as they were told, pushing open the door to the cell and dragging Oliver inside. As they did so the men who had been baying for Oliver's blood began to talk amongst themselves, occasionally shooting a glance in Smith's direction. Smith could see the anger in their faces; he had denied them their pound of flesh, the pleasure of seeing a man who had put so many of them behind bars die.

"Boys, boys, relax!" he said, smiling broadly. "I want to see Queen hang just as much as you do, and he will – I promise. But if we kill him now we can't have any more fun with him – you don't want that, do you? This way we can play some more games with our pretty boy hero. We'll send him to hell, don't you worry – but let's give him a taste of hell here first, yeah?"

Smith's words seemed to do the trick. The men began to disperse, prepared at least for now to accept the logic of Smith's argument. They, like him, were enjoying having the Green Arrow to play with – and play time wasn't over yet.

Smith made his way over to the cell. To one side of the open door hung the corpse of the guard who Oliver had fought earlier, his bulging eyes staring unseeing into the near distance. Stepping inside he found his men standing over Oliver's prostrate body, awaiting instructions.

"He's alive," said one of them flatly. "What do you want us to do with him?"

"Bring him round."

"How? He's out cold."

Smith glanced over at the toilet in the corner of the cell. It was filthy, stained with piss and shit.

"Stick his head in that," he said, grinning broadly.

The men needed no encouragement. Two of them grabbed Oliver by the arms and pulled him over towards the toilet. As Smith joined them he could see that the contents of the bowl were just about as bad as it was possible to imagine. The drain was blocked, so that the greenish-brown water lapped close to the edge. Large amounts of stained paper filled the water, probably the source of the blockage. Without hesitation one of the men thrust Oliver face down into the bowl, completely immersing his head. Water lapped over the sides, and for a moment nothing happened. Then suddenly Oliver began to struggle, fighting against the hands that held him. The man did not let go, but instead pushed Oliver's head deeper into the water; his mouth twisted into a malevolent grin, he had no intention of giving his captive relief.

"That's enough," said Smith after a few seconds had passed; having saved Oliver from being lynched, he had no intention of letting him drown.

Oliver's head was hauled from the water, muck and filth sticking to his face and hair. Gasping for breath, his eyes stared wildly, like a fish plucked from the ocean; he looked terrible, a man wrenched from beyond the grave.

"Welcome back, Queen!" shouted Smith, bending down and getting in Oliver's face. "Did you enjoy dying, pretty boy? Cos we had fun watching you die – so much fun we want to watch it all over again!"

Oliver opened his mouth to speak, but no words would come; exhausted, he could offer no resistance to his tormentor.

"What was that? You want a drink?" said Smith, leaning in as if trying to catch what Oliver was saying. "Our guest wants a drink, boys – guess we'd better give it to him!"

Laughing, the men plunged Oliver back down into the bowl. Again he struggled, his instinct to survive allowing him to tap into his final reserves of strength.

"That's right, drink up!" jeered Smith. "Does it taste good, Queen? Like one of those fancy bottles of champagne you used to drink?"

Seconds passed. Disorientated and weak, Oliver tried to hang on; somewhere in his head a voice was telling him to fight, to stay alive for Chloe's sake. But it was hard – it was so, so hard! He wanted it to end now – he wanted it to be over. It didn't matter if he died there, in that squalid, stinking toilet; release was all he wanted, an escape from the seemingly never-ending cycle of abuse and torture. What had he done to deserve this? He was a hero, for God's sake – why was this happening to him?

At last they pulled him from the bowl, before allowing him to slump pathetically to the floor, gulping air into his tortured lungs. He was aware of Smith towering above him, barking instructions to his men. Ears filled with water, he had no idea what was being said, but almost immediately he felt large hands grabbing his hands and feet. Rolled onto his stomach, he offered no resistance as his feet were bound together. He then felt his legs being pulled upwards at the knees; a new rope was attached to his ankles, before being stretched upwards and tied to the rope that bound his wrists. He was being hogtied, the effect completed by yet another rope which was looped around his neck before being tied to his ankles.

Their work complete, the men stood back to admire their handiwork. Smith smiled. Oliver was trussed up like an animal, movement made impossible by the ropes which had so cruelly been used to restrain him. Even better, the young hero was in a stress position; rest would be impossible in the hours that lay ahead, with even the slightest shift in position likely to cause him immense pain.

He knelt down beside Oliver, pulling his knife from his belt.

"Comfortable, leather boy?" he sneered, pushing the point of the blade beneath Oliver's chin and levering it upwards. "Now you get some beauty sleep, you hear? That last fight was just a warm up – the next round is going to be a whole lot tougher, and those boys out there don't like to be disappointed. So don't you go letting me down, Queen – or next time I won't be there to save that pretty little face of yours."

He reached out and ruffled Oliver's hair, a sick gesture of mocking affection from a man who knew that his captive was powerless to object. He then stood up, before turning towards the door. Inwardly Oliver gave a sigh of relief, thinking that at last he was going to be given the respite he craved.

He was wrong.

Smith paused, spinning round dramatically.

"I nearly forgot!" he exclaimed, as if he'd just remembered some vital piece of information. "Your old friend Lex Luthor sends his regards – wanted me to give you this."

He then thrust his knife deep into Oliver's shoulder blade, twisting it as he did so. Oliver let out a pitiful cry as searing pain sliced through his already battered, exhausted frame. Smith held the blade there for a few seconds, gouging at his victim's flesh and taking perverse delight in the agony he could see on Oliver's face. At last he removed the knife, before grabbing Oliver's hair and yanking his head upwards as far as the ropes would allow.

"Sleep well, motherfucker!" he hissed, spitting in the young hero's face before slamming his skull down hard onto the urine spattered floor. Again he got to his feet, only this time it was for real; he strode from the cell, slamming the door shut behind him.

"No one goes in, you understand?" he said to the two men who now stood guard at the entrance to the cell. The men nodded, closing ranks in front of the door. Smith glanced back through the bars, to where he could see Oliver lying motionless on the floor.

He smiled. He was enjoying this – and he'd only just begun.

* * *

_I can do this – I know I can do this!_

Chloe continued to rub the rope around her wrists against the corner of the steel cabinet. Her hands were bound behind her back, so she had no idea how near she was to success – for all she knew, she could still be hours away from the freedom she sought. She'd already sat there for what seemed like an eternity, propped up against the cabinet as she methodically worked away at her unseen bonds. The muscles in her arms ached, and her wrists felt raw from all the times she had tried to work herself free. None of that mattered, of course – all that mattered was to get free, to save the men she loved before it was too late.

The memory of her encounter with Lex haunted her. The knowledge that he had them all – the guys, Oliver, even Clark – drove her on, helping her to work through the pain. She had to escape, to find a way of striking back; the alternative was too terrible to contemplate. She had no idea where she was, or what she was going to do if she ever managed to get out of the featureless room which was now her prison. But she couldn't just sit there, meekly awaiting her fate. She was Watchtower, for God's sake – she never let the boys down, no matter what. She would find a way to save them, she just knew it – if she could just get free of these bonds...

Suddenly, she felt something give. She froze – was this it? Hardly daring to hope, she tried to pull her wrists apart. The rope didn't fall away, but it was loose – it was definitely loose! Trying to stay calm, she began to work her wrists, twisting them this way and that in an effort to ease them free. At first nothing happened, and for one terrible moment she actually thought the ropes were beginning to tighten. Then, without warning, she found she could move her wrists more easily. Seizing the opportunity, she pulled desperately against the rope, straining every sinew. This had to be it – surely, this had to be it...

Then, miraculously, she was free. Removing her hands from behind her back, she rubbed her wrists, trying to soothe the pains caused by her prolonged effort to escape. She knew she couldn't afford to hang around; one of Lex's goons could check in on her at any moment, so she had to move quickly. Within seconds she had removed the rope which had bound her ankles together, as well as the strip of duct tape that had been smeared over her mouth. Getting to her feet, she stretched her arms and legs; hours spent tied up and gagged had taken their toll, and she needed to get some feeling and movement back into her muscles. She had no idea what obstacles lay ahead, but at least now she had a chance – she had no intention of letting it pass.

Cautiously, she moved towards the door. As she took hold of the handle she could hear her heart pumping furiously in her chest. To her surprise, the handle moved easily – the door wasn't locked! As silently as she could, she eased it open a fraction of an inch, peering through the gap to see what, or who, might lie beyond. She could see a corridor, but, mercifully, no guard. She listened for a moment, straining to hear any signs of danger. There were none. Swallowing hard, she slowly pulled open the door, before stepping into the corridor beyond.

Quickly she looked to her left and right, scanning her surroundings. Mercifully, there didn't appear to be any surveillance cameras, meaning that –so far, at least – her escape had gone undetected. The corridor was long, with doors like the one she had just opened spaced at intervals along its length. Harsh, bright light flooded the space from the florescent tubes mounted on the ceiling, making up for the absence of natural light. Suddenly, she realised she had no idea of whether it was night or day, or even what day of the week it was. How long had she been unconscious for after they'd knocked her out with that drug? Was she still in Metropolis - was she still even in the United States?

As she slowly began to make her way down the corridor she had a strange feeling that she had seen this sort of set-up somewhere before. It didn't take her long to place it – the corridor looked exactly like the photos the guys had taken of one of Lex's 33.1 facilities, just before they'd blown it off the face of the earth. She shivered. That place had been a prison, a place where Lex's private army of scientists had run experiments on people who'd been kidnapped off the streets. Was that what was behind these doors? More victims of Lex's 33.1 program?

She came to a door which was unlike all the others. A keypad on the wall indicated that a code was needed to gain entry, and a tiny window gave a view of what lay beyond. Cautiously, she peered inside...

She gasped.

Inside she could see someone sitting hunched up on the floor in one corner of the room. Wearing a straightjacket, he appeared to be sleeping; despite this, Chloe recognised the man immediately.

It was him – no doubt about it.

She'd found Bart – she'd found Bart Allen!

* * *

Bart's back - yay! I'm guessing his return will make some of you happy. Will he team up with Chloe to save the day? Will they get to Ollie in time? No clues, I'm afraid - just the promise of some more shocks to come...

Sorry it has been a while since I posted - life is crazy at the moment, and it is difficult to find a time when I have the energy and inspiration to write. I'll update when I can - in the meantime any reviews you could post would really give me a lift!


	34. Chapter 34: Reunited

**Chapter Thirty Four: Reunited**

Chloe stood rooted to the spot, unable to move. She couldn't quite believe it; Bart, alive, just a few feet away – after all she'd been through, it seemed impossible that her luck might at last be turning. But it was him, there could be no doubt about that; even with his back half turned towards the door, she had recognised him in an instant. Her heart leapt into her mouth. Was this it? Was this the moment when the tide turned? She hardly dared to believe it might be possible. But if she could just open this door, then maybe...

Gripped by a sudden sense of urgency, she began to tap against the glass of the door. Quietly at first – she didn't want to attract the attention of any guards who might be nearby. She hoped that Bart would hear her, but the glass was thick, so that her efforts came to nothing. Glancing furtively to her left and right, she tried again; harder now, such was her desperation to rouse her young friend. Still Bart did not move. She began to wonder if perhaps he might be drugged in some way. If he was, no amount of banging on the door would do any good – he would be out for the count.

A thought seized her. What if he wasn't okay? What if Luthor had messed with his mind, turned him into some sort of vegetable? The experiments the guys had uncovered at some of the 33.1 facilities had made her blood run cold, and it terrified her to think that Bart might have fallen victim to one of Luthor's "procedures." Filled with a growing sense of dread, she knocked even louder on the glass, thumping it with all her might. She had to get into that cell – she had to know he was alright...

"Stop right there!"

Chloe froze. She didn't need to look to know what had happened – her short-lived escape attempt had been discovered.

"Turn around – and keep your hands where I can see them."

Slowly, Chloe did as she was told. There, at the end of the corridor, stood one of Lex's guards, his gun trained directly at her head. She sighed – was her bid for freedom really going to end like this?

The guard began to advance down the corridor, all the time keeping his gun pointed in her direction. Chloe did not move, but inside her mind was racing, searching for a way out. There were no obvious escape routes, all the doors being locked shut. Retreat was impossible – he'd take her out before she'd taken a step. Still she wracked her brain, determined to find something, anything, which might give her a chance...

He was nearly upon her now. His left hand was reaching down towards the cuffs which were fixed to his belt, ready to make her a prisoner once more. She wouldn't allow it – she wouldn't allow herself to be locked up again...

Suddenly, her eyelids fluttered. She swayed for a second, before her legs gave way under her; awkwardly, she collapsed into a crumpled heap on the floor.

This time it was the guard's turn to freeze. He hadn't expected this, and for a moment he was unsure about what to do. Slowly, cautiously, he then began to move forward, until he was standing over Chloe's body. She didn't move; her eyes closed, she appeared to have fainted. Still the guard was suspicious, expecting some sort of trap. Keeping his gun trained at her head, he prodded her with his boot. There was no response. Again he hesitated. Was she faking it? It was possible, but equally it might be what it looked like – a young woman fainting, suffering the after effects of all those drugs Luthor had pumped into her body. And even if she was faking it, what could she do? He was almost twice her size, for God's sake – hardly a threat. Keeping his gun in his hand, he began to bend down...

Sensing he was close, Chloe struck. Her eyes sprang open, and before the guard had time to react she aimed a kick directly at his groin. Caught off guard, he yelped in pain, but Chloe was in no mood to hold back. Her fist smashed into his face, causing him to stagger backwards. She leapt to her feet, and using all the force she could muster she then barrelled straight into his body, propelling him against the nearby wall. He gasped, a mixture of shock and pain writ large all over his face. Chloe could see his grip on the gun loosening, so before he had chance to recover she grabbed his wrist and smashed it two or three times against the wall. It did the trick, because immediately the gun fell from his hand, clattering to the floor. Chloe didn't hesitate; grabbing it with her right hand she picked it up, before bringing it crashing down on the stunned man's head. It was a ferocious blow, and one which proved too much for the guard; he slid, unconscious, to the floor.

Chloe did not waste a second. More of Lex's goons might appear at any moment, and she was unlikely to get lucky second time around. Her heart pumping furiously in her chest, she bent down and began to rifle through the guard's pockets. It didn't take her long to find what she was looking for; an electronic key card, which she hoped would give her access to Bart's cell. Hardly daring to hope, she slipped the card into the slot above the keypad. For a split second nothing happened, before a tiny green light appeared above the slot.

She was in!

She pushed open the door, and in an instant was at Bart's side. Recalling her fears of moments earlier, she carefully rolled the teenager up against the wall. He showed no signs of movement, his head lolling forwards onto his chest. She felt for a pulse; relief swept over her when she found it was strong. She wasn't too late after all, but she knew she was still in trouble – if she couldn't wake him she'd either have to leave him behind, or stay and face certain capture.

"Bart – Bart, wake up!" she whispered, conscious of the open door behind her.

He didn't move.

"Bart, it's me – Chloe!" she continued, shaking him gently. "Bart, wake up – we need to get out of here!"

She shook him for a few more seconds, but his body remained limp and lifeless. Increasingly desperate, she then slapped him round the face.

"Bart, can you hear me? Wake up, damnit!"

Suddenly he stirred. It wasn't much, but Chloe seized upon it; she began to shake him violently, as if she were trying to force him back to consciousness.

"Bart! Bart – can you hear me?"

His eyes flickered open. For a moment they struggled to focus, until they alighted on Chloe's face.

"Chloe ... Chloe, is that you?"

"It's me, Bart – it's me!" replied Chloe, reaching out and cupping his cheek in her hand. Despite everything, she found herself smiling broadly, a tear of relief forming in the corner of her eye. Sure, they were still a long way from being safe – in fact, their chances of escape were pretty slim. But there was something about seeing Bart, about finding him alive and well, which released a wave of emotion inside her. She had found one of the team – now, surely, the tide must at last be turning.

"Lex – Lex is alive!" said Bart, his eyes suddenly wide with fear. "And he's got this monster working for him – more powerful than Clark! He took AC – just took him! You've got to warn them, Chloe – warn Oliver!"

"We need to get you out of here," said Chloe, deliberately avoiding Bart's concerns. There was nothing to be gained from telling him the truth, and for all she knew the shock of finding out about the disaster that had overtaken his friends might be enough to push him over the edge. He appeared anxious, almost overwrought; whatever Lex had done to him, it had clearly taken its toll. She needed to get him to safety – everything else could wait.

"Can you walk?" she asked, glancing down at the blood stained bandages that were wrapped around his ankles as she undid the straps of the straightjacket.

"I...I think so."

"Good. Here – let me help you."

Taking him under the arms, she slowly pulled him to his feet; he winced as his ankles took the weight of his body.

"Are you okay?" she asked, seeing the pain on his face.

"Yeah... yeah, it's fine," he said, trying to hide his obvious discomfort.

"Here, lean on me," said Chloe, putting her arm around his shoulders. "Now let's get out of here, before someone comes."

The two of them made their way to the door. Stepping over the unconscious guard, they moved into the corridor, looking left and right for any signs of danger.

"Which way?" asked Chloe.

"I don't know. This place is a maze – all I know is that Lex's office is that way," replied Bart, nodding to his right.

"You mean Lex is here?"

"He's here – they took me to him before they gave me my last shot."

Chloe hesitated. A thought had sprung into her mind – an idea so crazy she couldn't quite believe that she was actually taking it seriously. But these were desperate times, and given the state Bart was in their chances of making it out in one piece were negligible. It was insane, she knew – but it might just work.

She leaned down and picked up the guard's discarded gun. Then she turned – not left, as might have been expected, but right, in the direction of Lex's office.

"What are you doing?" asked Bart. "Lex is down there."

"I know – and I want you to take me right to him," said Chloe, her brow furrowed in concentration as she raised the gun into the air. She looked at Bart, who slowly began to smile.

"So Watchtower wants to kick some ass," he said, his smile broadening into a grin. "Guess we should have got you a costume after all."

Now it was Chloe's turn to smile. The tension was palpable; both knew the risks that lay ahead, and that the chances of escape were small. But they were together, and they had a plan – for now, that was enough.

It was time to take the battle to the enemy.

It was time to confront Lex Luthor.

* * *

Sorry this chapter is so short - I hope the Chloe action makes up for the length! Originally I had planned for this to be the first part of a longer chapter, but as I'm finding it difficult to make time to write at the moment I thought I'd better post it now - if I'd waited until the next section is written, you might all have lost interest. At least this leaves you with a cliffhanger, and you all know how much I love my cliffhangers! Do you think they are going to escape? No clues from me, apart from to say that things are never simple in my stories...

Thanks for reading, and of course a massive thank-you to those who have taken the time to review. Please do post a review if you can - they mean a huge amount, and always help to motivate me to write some more.


	35. Chapter 35: The Cruellest Twist

**Chapter Thirty-Five: The Cruellest Twist**

Lex leaned back in his chair, taking a sip from the glass of single malt he had just poured for himself. He'd just spent the best part of three hours poring over the mountain of paperwork that had built up over the previous few days. Getting LuthorCorp up and running after his enforced absence, the completion of the takeover of Queen Industries, the resurrection of the 33.1 program, not to mention the climax of his plan to take down the Justice League – no wonder he felt exhausted. It had been an incredible few days, but somehow the tiredness didn't seem to matter. The exhilaration of success drove him on, banishing any need for rest. Never in his life had he felt so alive, so complete; it was as if his victory over Oliver and the League had finally driven away the demons that had haunted him for so long. He still couldn't quite believe it – that everything had gone exactly as he'd planned it. But the reality of what had happened could not be denied. He, Lex Luthor, _had _won – and he couldn't imagine a sweeter feeling existed this side of heaven.

Reaching out to his laptop with his free hand, he typed in a password. Immediately the blackness of the screen was replaced by the grainy images of a live video feed. The face of a young man appeared, lit only by the eerie half light cast by an infra-red camera; he stared lifelessly straight ahead, his eyes empty and hollow. Lex smiled. Installing a webcam in the capsule that had become Arthur Curry's tomb had been a stroke of genius. For days now he'd enjoyed observing the young hero's slow, lonely death at the bottom of the ocean, watching with a mixture of fascination and excitement. He loathed Curry, almost as much as he loathed Oliver; he hated his good looks, his inane sense of humour, his insufferable arrogance. Sending the man who had been his jailer to a long, lingering death had given him a kick, but watching him die day by day was almost as satisfying. At the beginning there had been rage in those clear blue eyes, anger that he had allowed himself to be taken so easily. Then there had been the panic, the growing realisation that this time there would be no rescue, no leather clad vigilante who would come to his aid. The tears had flowed – tears of terror, of deep rooted, visceral fear. And now there was this – the once mighty Aquaman, the smart-mouthed surf boy, reduced to little more than a husk of his former self, waiting to die.

Revenge didn't get much better than this – but still, it wasn't enough. For Lex, Curry and the others were simply the entree, an appetiser before the main course. Even learning the truth about Clark seemed secondary to what was to come. He'd read the reports submitted by the team he'd charged with learning the truth about his old friend. Their initial findings were encouraging, and Lex was certain in the weeks and months that lay ahead he would learn a lot more about the alien who had hidden in plain sight for so long. But for the moment, Clark could wait; Lex had another, more pressing priority.

It was time to finally settle his account with Oliver Queen.

Every stage of Oliver's destruction – the takeover of Queen Industries, the destruction of the Green Arrow's reputation, Oliver's unmasking, trial and imprisonment – it had all been leading to this moment. Lex knew all about what had happened to Oliver since his arrival at Nemesis, Galton keeping him informed of every humiliation, every torment. Nemesis had done what he had hoped it would do, and given his rival a taste of what it was like to experience true despair. He could let it go on, of course, but something inside was telling him the time had come – it was time to bring a lifetime of rivalry and hatred to an end, once and for all. Oliver had to die, and he would be the man who killed him. There was only one thing left remaining before the final chapter opened, one final little game to play...

"Turn around, Lex!"

He froze. It was a voice he recognised – a woman's voice...

"I said, turn around!"

Slowly, Lex did as he was told. There, standing framed in the doorway to his office, stood Chloe, a gun clasped tightly in her hands.

"Chloe! This is an unexpected pleasure," said Lex, the merest hint of a smile on his lips. He sounded calm, almost relaxed – certainly not like a man who found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

"Get up – and keep your hands where I can see them!"

Again, Lex complied, slowly getting up from his chair and raising his hands in the air.

"I might have known that you'd find a way of getting out of that cell – Oliver didn't make you Watchtower for nothing, did he?" he continued calmly, glancing over Chloe's shoulder to the empty corridor beyond.

"It's no use looking for one of your pet apes, Lex – we've taken care of them."

At that moment Bart appeared in the doorway, leaning against its frame.

"And you've found Bart! Two members of the League, together again – that must have been such a touching reunion."

"Shut up!" demanded Chloe, tightening her grip on the gun. Her hands were shaking, and beads of sweat were running down her forehead. Inside, she could feel her heart thumping furiously in her chest, the adrenalin surging through her veins. Her plan was so audacious, so improbable, she couldn't quite believe that it was working. But they'd made short work of the solitary guard they'd met on their way here, and now, standing face to face with Lex, she was, at last, starting to believe it. For days they'd been at the mercy of this monster, like puppets dancing on strings. The guys, Clark, Oliver – they'd all fallen prey to Lex's twisted fantasies. Now, at last, it seemed as if the tide had finally turned. Incredibly, unbelievably, he was now _her_ prisoner. She was in control, and now she would give the orders. The guys would be freed, Oliver would be exonerated, and Lex would be sent back to jail. She would have her happy ending after all – she would get to spend the rest of her life with the man she loved more than anything else in the world. And after all they'd been through, all they'd endured, in the end it had all been so easy – so absurdly, ridiculously _easy_...

"So what now, Chloe? I suppose you want me to free Clark and the others?"

"Something like that."

"And then help you to free lover boy by handing myself in to the authorities, confessing all my dastardly deeds?"

Chloe did not reply. There was something about Lex's manner, something that unnerved her. She had the gun, so why did it feel as if he was in control? Lex was always cool under pressure, but this was more than that – he was mocking her, playing with her. What was going on? It was as if he knew something that she didn't...

"What's wrong, Chloe?" continued Lex, a contemptuous smile forming on his lips. "You're the one with the gun, and yet you looked scared. Why is that, I wonder? Are those famous reporter's instincts of yours telling you something's wrong?"

"Where's Oliver?" demanded Chloe, ignoring Lex's taunts and her own growing sense of unease.

"You know where he is, Chloe – behind bars, where he belongs."

"Don't play games, Lex!" said Chloe, raising her voice and waving the gun at her captive. "I could kill you now - don't think I wouldn't!"

"Chloe, please – you and I both know you're not going to do that. You need to keep me alive – without me, Oliver and his freaks are as good as dead."

The two stared at each other for a moment. Lex could see Chloe's mind racing, trying to work out what to do next. The deep furrows in her brow and her wide, desperate eyes told their own story, but he could see that she had not lost her sense of reason; that was what made him certain of the outcome of the drama that was about to play out.

"You're coming with us," she said finally. "Move!"

"I don't think so, Chloe."

"I'm warning you, Lex – don't push me!"

"I'd love to come with you, Chloe, but I can't – you see, the game has just changed."

Lex spoke quietly, the certainty in his voice filling the room.

"What... What are you talking about?"

Lex grinned.

"You still don't get it, do you? Perhaps I'll let me friend here explain it to you."

As Lex spoke he glanced to Chloe's left. At that moment she sensed a presence there, a figure standing just outside her field of vision. Suddenly fearing the worst, her eyes darted leftwards.

She gasped. There, standing unaided and with a broad smile on his face, stood Bart. He held a gun in his hand – and it was pointed directly at her head.

"Bart... What... What are you doing?" stammered Chloe, not quite believing what her eyes were telling her.

"Sorry, Chloe," replied Bart. "But hey, what can I say? Lex offered me a deal I couldn't refuse."

"But the cell...you were being held prisoner..."

"I must take the blame for that," interrupted Lex. "But you know me, Chloe – I do enjoy my little games! And when Bart said he was up for it – well, I'm afraid I couldn't stop myself. You didn't really think you were going to just walk out of here that easily, did you? Or perhaps you did – perhaps you really did believe that you were single-handedly going to save the day!"

Bart smirked. His whole manner had changed; there was a harshness to his voice, a sneer that Chloe had not heard before. Her mind was still struggling to comprehend what was happening, but in her gut she could feel a knot of fear tightening by the second. She'd half expected a trap, but not this – anything but this...

"Bart, please!" she pleaded. "Listen to me – this isn't you! Lex has done something to you – drugged you or something..."

"It's true – Bart has received the best care that LuthorCorp can provide," interrupted Lex. "But all we've done is help him to see things – how shall I put this? – a little more _clearly_. Isn't that right, Bart?"

"That's right, Mr Luthor," replied Bart, still aiming his gun at Chloe's head.

"So Bart works for me now – just like you will, Chloe."

"Stop it!" shouted Chloe, her voice cracking under the strain. She took a step towards Lex, tightening her grip on the gun she continued to aim in his direction. "Turn him back to normal, or I swear – I will kill you!"

"No you won't, Chloe – you know you won't," replied Lex, his quiet certainty contrasting with Chloe's increasing desperation. "Now put the gun down – I really don't want to have to order Bart to kill you."

Bart stepped towards Chloe. He placed the barrel of his gun against the side of her head, pressing it gently into her flesh.

"Do as he says, Chloe."

"Bart, please..." she whispered, tears flowing down her cheeks. Inside, her heart was broken. For a few, precious minutes, she had dared to dream that everything would be alright, that she would have her happy ending after all. To have that ripped away from her, to find that it was all just another of Lex's twisted games, was just too much. And Bart... Why did it have to be Bart? He'd been the life and soul of the League, the kid with the wicked sense of humour who'd been like a younger brother to all of them. For him to fall victim to Lex, and in such a shocking, terrible way...

Whatever hopes she might have continued to harbour died at that moment. She knew it was over – Lex had won.

"Here, let me take that for you," said Lex, reaching out and taking the gun from Chloe's trembling hands. She didn't resist; in a state of shock, she barely seemed to register what was happening to her.

"Tie her up," ordered Lex, turning and placing the gun on his desk. Bart pulled some zip ties from his pocket, before proceeding to bind Chloe's wrists behind her back. The job done, he then wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her back against his body.

"Don't worry, Chloe," he whispered, his mouth just inches from her right ear. "Lex is going to take care of Oliver, and then maybe you and me can get it together, yeah?"

He kissed her on the cheek. Chloe recoiled in horror; she opened her mouth to speak, only to find her cry muffled by the press of a damp rag against her nose and lips. Immediately she smelt the chloroform, but it was too late; Bart's grip was unrelenting, and he continued to hold the cloth firmly over her mouth.

"Ssshhh," he whispered, as vainly Chloe tried to work herself free. "It's going to be alright, I promise."

Chloe felt herself begin to lose consciousness. As her eyelids fluttered, she caught sight of Lex, smiling broadly just a few feet away. It was the last thing she saw, before everything went black.

"Take her back to her cell," said Lex, returning to his chair. "And make sure she's properly secured this time – I don't want any unexpected complications whilst I'm away."

Throwing Chloe's lifeless body over his shoulder, Bart began to make his way towards the door.

"And Bart," said Lex, causing the teenager to stop.

"Yeah?"

"Good work today. I can see you have a great future in my organisation."

Bart grinned, before turning and making his way out of the room.

Lex picked up his glass, taking a sip of the single malt he'd poured himself earlier. He'd enjoyed that – he'd enjoyed that very much. The look on Chloe's face as she'd realised that her little escape attempt was nothing more than a cruel trick had been priceless, and Bart's behaviour was clear evidence that the treatment he'd received had done its job; his loyalty was now no longer in doubt. Bart would be a useful asset to LuthorCorp, as of course, would Chloe – her treatment would begin in a few days time, after Oliver had been dealt with. Yes, it was all coming together perfectly – the stage was now set for the final chapter.

His cell rang. Lex picked it up eagerly; he was expecting a call.

"Yes?"

"_The team is ready, Mr Luthor – we can fly when you give the order."_

"Good... good. Any further reports from Nemesis?"

"_Nothing, sir – the last we heard was when Galton checked in two hours ago."_

"Tell the pilot we fly within the hour. I'll be with you as soon as I finish up here."

Lex ended the call. He downed the remainder of his drink, before getting up and making his way to the door.

It was time to pay Oliver one final visit.

* * *

Did you see that coming? You know I love my story twists as much as Lex loves toying with our heroes, but this must be one of the cruellest shocks I've ever written. I know you all love Bart, so I hope you don't hate me too much. *Hides as readers throw anything they can lay their hands on in my direction.*

Back to Oliver in the next chapter - we've left him tied up in that cell for too long! Who is going to get to him first - Smith or Lex? What's going to happen to Chloe? Are the guys ever going to catch a break? All will be revealed in future chapters - all I will say is that I have lots more angst, drama and action planned before we reach this story's climax!

Sorry for the delay in updating - real life is so inconvenient at times! Thanks for sticking with this story, and for posting such amazing reviews - please do keep on giving me feedback, because it is the one thing which sees me through those times when I think about just walking away.


	36. Chapter 36: The Arena

**Chapter Thirty-Six: The Arena**

_Stay strong –I must stay strong!_

For hours now Oliver had been repeating these words to himself as he drifted in and out of consciousness. They had become his mantra, a mental raft that he clung to as pain and despair swirled all around. But they were just words, and now, after all he had been through, they didn't seem enough. He could sense the cold, undiluted fear that existed deep within his soul, a fear which at times threatened to rise to the surface and overwhelm him. It all seemed so hopeless – so utterly, terribly hopeless. He had faced captivity and torture before, at the hands of Lex and others, but this was different – this time there really was no chance of escape, no possibility of salvation. Everything he'd worked for, everything he'd lived for, lay in ruins – his reputation, his fortune, the team he'd built up from nothing, the team he'd loved as if they were the brothers he'd never had. AC, Bart, Victor – all of them were Lex's prisoners now, perhaps suffering torments even worse than his own. And then there was Chloe – beautiful, wonderful Chloe! Before he'd met her he'd never understood what true completeness, true contentment, really was. She had made him whole, given his life a purpose and a meaning that he'd never thought possible. But now she too was gone – cruelly snatched from him, just at the moment when they thought they were going to share the rest of their lives together. He would never see her again now – never see that smile which had melted his heart, smell the scent of her perfume as he ran his hands through her hair, kissing her as only a man truly in love can kiss a woman.

It was all gone. Everyone he'd ever loved, everyone he'd ever cherished – gone. There would be no fairytale ending, no heroic rescue. Instead he would die here, in this godforsaken place - a broken man, soaked in piss and shit. It wasn't meant to be like this – he was the good guy, the hero. Why was this happening? What had he done to deserve this!

Not for the first time, panic took hold – despair and rage joining forces to overpower his deep-rooted desire to stay strong. He wanted to cry – to cry tears of hurt, of pain, of incomprehension. He'd not felt like this since his parents had died, leaving him orphaned and alone. He'd felt empty then, terrified of a world where suddenly all the familiar anchors that had given his life stability had been swept away. He felt the same way now – and at that moment, lying on that hard, cold floor, he wanted his parents more than he'd ever wanted them before.

_Stay strong –I must stay strong!_

He repeated his mantra, somehow forcing back the tide of emotion that threatened to send tears of despair and desolation running down his cheeks. He was damned if he was going to give these bastards the satisfaction of seeing him break. If he was going to die, he would die a hero – whatever they did to him, they couldn't take away his self-respect.

He moved his head slightly, trying to gain some sort of relief from the rope that encircled his neck. Hogtied and lying on his stomach, every move threatened to increase his discomfort. The rope around his neck was attached to the rope that bound his hands behind his back, which in turn was tied to the rope that was wrapped around his ankles. The overall effect was to leave him in an acute stress position, so that rest was impossible; every time fatigue promised to send him to the welcome oblivion of sleep, the rope around his neck would jerk him awake as his head began to droop. It was entirely deliberate, of course – Smith might have urged him to rest, but in fact he had no intention of allowing him a moment's relief from his physical and mental torment. These hours of pain and discomfort were designed to soften him up, so that the next time he was thrust into the makeshift arena of his captor he would be unable to put up a fight. That was the purpose of the knife wound in his shoulder too – to cripple him, so that he would not be able to resist whatever opponent Smith had lined up next. It was sadism, and sadism of the cruellest kind – a cold, calculated variety, the product of a sick mind that delighted only in inflicting pain on others. Oliver knew only too well that for Smith, humiliating and killing the once invincible Green Arrow was a thrill like no other. He just prayed that when the moment came, he would have the strength to endure – and that death, if it was indeed inevitable, would be quick.

Off to his left Oliver heard the door to his cell swing open. He tensed, sensing that finally that moment had arrived.

"Sleep well, pretty boy?"

It was Smith's voice. Oliver swallowed hard – whatever this psycho had planned, it was obvious that now was the time for round two of his murderous game.

"I said, did you sleep well, pretty boy?" repeated Smith, his question this time accompanied by a well placed kick to Oliver's side. Oliver let out a stifled cry, wincing as his body was subjected to yet more abuse.

"Awww, did that hurt, motherfucker?" taunted Smith, circling his captive. "Tell you what – how's about I call in one of those fancy doctors from Metropolis to check you over after the next fight? Would you like that, boy? Well, would you?"

Oliver said nothing, but tried to gather what little strength he had left for what was to come.

"Answer me, damnit!" shouted Smith, obviously irritated by his captive's unwillingness to respond. He kicked Oliver again, only this time much harder; once more the helpless hero cried out, only this time his cry of pain was accompanied by a curse.

"Go to hell, you sick sack of shit!"

Smith laughed. "That's more like it – a bit of fight! We wouldn't want to disappoint the boys, now would we?"

"I won't fight for you again, Smith. Kill me if you want – but I won't fight," gasped Oliver, his defiance sounding loud and clear through his pain.

"Ohh, you'll fight – I promise you, you'll fight," said Smith, squatting down in front of Oliver. Pulling his knife from his belt, he placed its tip beneath Oliver's chin, levering his head upwards.

"Look at you, Queen," he continued, a twisted smile on his lips. "The big hero, all trussed up like a turkey. You're quite a sight, do you know that? I wonder what all your fancy friends back in Metropolis would make of you now, eh?"

Oliver glared at Smith. The despair of earlier had disappeared, for now at least; it was as if the sight of his enemy had given him new strength, a renewed determination to go down fighting.

"And you are such a good looking boy!" said Smith, his head tilting slightly to one side as he studied Oliver's face. "Those big brown eyes, and that oh so handsome face! You know, when I first saw you, all ripped muscle and leather, I thought you were the prettiest thing I ever did see! If things had been different, I would have enjoyed making you my bitch – but hey, we can't have everything, can we?"

Oliver's jaw tightened. Smith was playing with him, he knew that – but it didn't make it any easier to bear.

"Still, I've got Roy to keep me company. It's good to have him back, you know – I'd missed him when the doc took him under his wing."

Something snapped inside Oliver. His own predicament was bad enough, but to think of his friend as Smith's plaything – it was just too much.

"What have you done to him? If you've hurt him, I'll kill you, I swear..."

Again Smith laughed. "Whoah - sounds like hero boy is jealous! Roy sure is pretty – you two would have made such a sweet couple! You know something, Queen – you are right to be jealous. He and I have just spent a few hours getting _reacquainted_, if you know what I mean, and I gotta tell you – he tasted _good._"

Oliver grunted with rage, fully aware of the awful meaning of Smith's words.

"Now don't be a sore loser, Queen," said Smith, his brow furrowed with fake concern. "I'll take good care of Roy, I promise. Time we got you ready for your next fight, yeah? Like I say, I want you to put up a good show – the boys just hate being disappointed."

"I've told you – I won't fight!" said Oliver, his sense of frustration boiling over. "Torture me, kill me – I won't fight!"

"You'll fight. Here, maybe a little war paint will help get you in the mood," said Smith, dipping his fingers into the pool of Oliver's blood which lay on the floor and smearing it down the young hero's cheeks. He then grabbed Oliver by the hair, pulling his head back so far the sinews in his neck felt as if they would snap.

"Now you be a good little hero, and do what I tell you, yeah?" he hissed, leaning in close so that his face was just inches from Oliver's. "Because if you don't, I'll throw you to those boys out there – and you don't wanna know what they'll do if they get their hands on you."

Smith smiled – a sick, twisted smile that sent a shudder down Oliver's spine. He was trapped, with no way out – he had prayed for a quick death, but it was clear that Smith had other plans.

Smith stood. He'd toyed with Oliver enough – it was time for the main event to begin.

"Get him ready," he ordered, standing aside and making way for the two men who had stood guard outside Oliver's cell. Expertly they removed the ropes that had held Oliver captive, before dragging him to his feet. Weak and disorientated by his sudden change of position, Oliver swayed alarmingly, and would have fell had not the two men grabbed him and held him upright.

"Steady there, hero boy – no one's laid a hand on you, and you already look beat!" exclaimed Smith, looking his captive up and down. Oliver was in a bad way. His face was smeared with blood and filth, his hair matted with a mixture of sweat and the water from the toilet they had almost drowned him in earlier. His costume, once the armour that had protected him, was also smeared with muck and dirty water; in places the leather was torn, revealing the bruised and battered flesh which lay just beneath. One shoulder of his tunic was soaked with blood, the wound inflicted by Smith hours earlier having left its gruesome mark. Oliver was beaten, sure – but he was not yet broken. His head clearing, he became aware of his captor's gaze; straightening his back, he returned his stare, every inch the hero he wanted to be.

Smith grinned. He could see the defiance in Oliver's eyes, the desire to go down fighting. It would make what was to come that much more enjoyable to watch – the final humiliation of the rich boy who thought he'd play at being a hero.

"So, ready to fight, Queen?" he asked. "The boys are waiting, so I guess we'd better get this show on the road, yeah?"

Smith turned and took a step towards the door. He then paused, turning back in Oliver's direction.

"Oh, I nearly forgot! I got another present for you – and this one's from me." He then drove his fist straight into Oliver's gut. Caught off guard, Oliver doubled over in agony, gasping in pain. Smith hadn't finished; he then grabbed Oliver in a headlock, before taking his knife and driving it deep into the young hero's shoulder. The blade penetrated at exactly the same point as his previous attack, opening up the wound that had only just healed over. Oliver cried out in agony; pain seared through his upper arm and across his chest as blood once more began to seep from the open cut.

"Enjoy that, leather boy?" sneered Smith, his teeth gritted with the exhilaration of the moment. "Let's see you try some of those fancy moves now, eh?"

Releasing Oliver from his grip, he stood back, admiring his handiwork. With difficulty, Oliver forced himself upright, his face contorted with pain. His arm was now useless, just as Smith intended; whatever this sadist had planned, he had made certain that the Green Arrow would be wounded and unable to protect himself.

"Bring him!" ordered Smith, leading the way out of the cell. Oliver felt the muzzle of a gun press against the small of his back, before rough hands propelled him forwards. Outside the cell a crowd had gathered, their faces filled with a mixture of hate and expectation; they'd enjoyed round one, and were obviously eager for more. Oliver's appearance caused a ripple of excitement, the sight of the young hero's bruised and bloodied body seeming to whet their appetite for more. They could sense that this time the fight would be different – that this time, the man they hated would receive the beating they longed to see.

As Oliver was guided forwards the men parted to allow him through. Some shouted abuse, threats; a few spat in his face. Mercifully, he did not have to run the gauntlet for long, as soon they arrived at the space that was to be the location of the next fight. As Oliver was shoved forwards the men closed ranks behind him, so that he was encircled by a solid wall of humanity, all high on their bloodlust.

Smith circled his makeshift arena, once more assuming the role of impromptu ringmaster.

"Here he is, boys – our very own hero, back to fight for truth, justice and the American way!" he announced sarcastically, clearly revelling in the moment. "But who will dare to fight the invincible Green Arrow? Who will dare to challenge the archer?"

Oliver stared straight ahead, his features fixed. Whatever happened, he wasn't going to fight for the amusement of these animals – if that meant he had to die, so be it.

"One man has stepped forward to take on the hero, one man to avenge us all!" continued Smith, now in full flow. "I give you your champion...Malone!"

The crowd roared as a man stepped forwards. He was a giant, standing at over seven feet tall. Bare-chested, he had the physique of a bodybuilder, muscles bulging grotesquely on his enormous frame. What was most intimidating, however, were the tattoos that covered every inch of his skin, from the top of his shaven head to the tips of his fingers; they made him appear inhuman, almost monstrous.

Oliver swallowed hard. No wonder Smith had been keen to make him fight – against this beast of a man, he would have no chance.

The man circled the ring, punching the air as if he were attempting to whip the crowd into a frenzy of excitement. After a few seconds Smith intervened, moving to the centre of the ring and gesturing for his audience to be silent.

"Boys, boys, I have some bad news!" he said, affecting a look of disappointment and concern. "A few moments ago leather boy here told me he didn't want to fight. Can you believe that – the mighty Green Arrow, refusing to fight?"

There were angry shouts from the crowd. Oliver's senses began to tingle; Smith was leading up to something, something bad...

"Relax, boys – relax!" said Smith, obviously savouring the fact that he was able to manipulate the crowd so easily. "I've got something that will make our friend here fight – something really special. Please welcome our very own damsel in distress, Roy Harper!"

Once more the men erupted, a wall of sound echoing around the cavernous hall. Oliver's heart sank like a stone as Roy was dragged forward, his arms held firmly by two of Smith's thugs. He was gagged with duct tape that had been wrapped tightly around his head, but, apart from a cut above his left eye, he appeared to be unharmed. His eyes widened as he caught sight of Oliver, both men knowing they were now pawns in a deadly game they could not control.

"So here's the deal, Queen," said Smith, standing between Roy and Oliver. "You fight, and Roy lives. Don't fight, and your new sidekick will have to fight in your place. Which will it be?"

Oliver scowled at his tormentor, who moved over to where Roy was being held.

"He's such a handsome boy – it would be a shame if Malone had to smash up a face as beautiful as this," he said, stroking the side of Roy's face. Roy flinched, turning his head away; he then began to struggle against his captors' grip as the other men watched, laughing.

"Get your hands off him, you sick bastard!" demanded Oliver.

"So, what's it to be, Queen? You or pretty boy here?" asked Smith, enjoying his prisoner's anger. "Are you the tough guy hero you claim to be – or just a coward, willing to abandon his friends to save his own skin?"

Oliver was trapped. Roy's life was at stake, so he knew he had no choice – he had to fight.

"I'll fight," he said quietly, staring intently at Smith with eyes that were filled with barely concealed rage.

"What's that? Speak up, Queen – the boys here want to hear your answer!"

"I'll fight, damnit!" snapped Oliver, acknowledging defeat. The men roared their delight, their shouts merging to fill the hall with a terrifying howl which seemed to come from the very depths of hell itself.

"Then let the games begin!" said Smith with a flourish, nimbly stepping aside and leaving Oliver and Malone alone in the arena. The two men stared at each other for a few moments, before they began to circle around the makeshift ring. Never once did they take their eyes off each other, each man searching for the other's weakness. Despite his size and Oliver's obvious injury, Malone seemed reluctant to attack; it was as if the reputation of the Green Arrow held him back, making him wary of his wounded opponent. The crowd began to get frustrated. They urged Malone on, screaming and shouting for him to attack, their faces filled with hate. Oliver heard none of it. He stayed completely focused on his opponent, blocking out all distractions; he tried to read the man's face, to see when he was about to attack...

Suddenly, Malone made his move. He lunged towards Oliver, throwing a punch as he did so. Oliver was ahead of him; he neatly sidestepped the clumsy attack, leaving Malone to barrel into the wall of spectators. Enraged, the big man turned and launched himself for a second time in Oliver's direction. The outcome was the same; again Oliver ducked to the side at the last moment, only this time Malone ended up sprawled in a heap on the floor.

Emboldened, Oliver glanced across at Roy. No words were needed; he simply nodded at his young friend, as if to tell him everything was going to be okay. Adrenalin was now pumping through his body, banishing the aches and pains of his battered muscles, at least for now. Malone might have been a monster, but it was increasingly clear that he was slow on his feet. He was no match for Oliver's quick reflexes; if he could just stay one step ahead, then maybe...

Malone was on his feet again. Angry at being wrong footed by Oliver, he snarled at the young hero, before launching himself forwards for a third time. Growing in confidence, this time Oliver did more than sidestep the attack; as he dodged his lumbering opponent he stuck out his foot, catching Malone's leg and sending him crashing to the ground.

"C'mon!" shouted Oliver, punching the air as he tried to pump himself up. He looked across at Smith, whose smile had been replaced with a look of irritation. "This the best you got, Smith? Cos if it is, you ain't got nothing, do you hear? Nothing!"

Smith's lip curled, his frustration obvious. This wasn't how it was meant to be – this wasn't how it was meant to be at all. It was time to intervene, to level up the odds a little...

Looking over Oliver's shoulder, he nodded to someone in the crowd. Oliver saw it, but too late did he understand. He turned, only for something to hit him on the side of the head. He didn't know what it was – a stone probably – but it threw him off balance. He staggered to the right a few paces, clutching his head and trying to make sense of what had happened. One of Smith's men had thrown something, something to disorientate him...

Malone took his chance. Getting to his feet, he grabbed at Oliver. This time there was to be no escape; Oliver felt huge hands encircle his upper arms, lifting him high into the air and throwing him across the arena. The crowd cheered – at last they were seeing what they wanted to see, the leader of the Justice League being beaten. Oliver landed heavily on the hard concrete floor, his head still swimming. He tried to get to his feet, but couldn't, his legs giving way under him. Struggling to focus, he sensed Malone bearing down on him; he tried to crawl away, but it was too late. Grabbing him by his tunic, Malone lifted Oliver horizontally into the air, before carrying him round the arena like some sort of trophy. The men went wild, cheering and screaming for more. Malone didn't disappoint, soon dropping the young hero to the floor. He kicked him a few times, before grabbing him by the hair and dragging to him to his feet.

"This all _you_ got, he-ro!" he hissed in Oliver's ear. "Cos I'm gonna whip your ass – I'm gonna make you _beg_!"

And so it began – five minutes of pure hell. Malone didn't hold back; he gave Oliver the beating of his life, tossing him around the ring like some life-size rag doll. There was nothing Oliver could do to resist; he'd known that it would probably end like this, and all he could do was to try to shut out the pain and place his mind in a place where all the hurt, all the agony, could not reach. He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the sea of faces that jeered and hurled abuse all around him. Instead he thought of Chloe, of her smiling face when he'd asked her to marry him, all those weeks ago. If this was the end, at least he'd known true happiness, and no one - not Smith, not Lex, not anyone – could take that away from him.

Finally, it was over. Oliver lay face down on the floor, shattered by the viciousness of Malone's assault. Exhausted, he was breathing heavily, trying to force air into his tortured lungs. Barely aware of what was happening around him, he sensed Malone moving away, before the crowd fell silent.

Smith stepped forward. The fight had been all he'd hoped it would be – brutal, merciless, exhilarating. The Green Arrow hadn't just been beaten – he'd been destroyed. Now it was time to finish it – it was time to deliver the coup de grace.

"He's beaten, boys – the archer is beaten!" he announced, resuming his role as master of ceremonies. "All hail our champion – Malone, destroyer of heroes!"

Smith grabbed Malone's arm and lifted it aloft, like a referee hailing the victor of a boxing match. The crowd went wild, cheering and whooping their delight as Malone went on a lap of honour. Smith, meanwhile, stood over Oliver, waiting for his moment.

At last the cheering began to subside. Smith held up his hand, asking once more for silence.

"And so here he is – the mighty Green Arrow, defeated at last," he said contemptuously, rolling Oliver over onto his back with his boot. "Look at him, boys – look at him! The all conquering hero – now all he's good for is licking shit off my boot!"

As he spoke Smith placed his foot on Oliver's face, grinding downwards as if he were putting out the butt of a cigarette. The men laughed, sensing that the final act of Smith's drama was about to play out.

"So what shall we do with him, boys? What shall we do with our fallen hero here?"

"Kill him!" shouted a voice from the crowd. Immediately others joined in, so that within seconds a deafening chorus had developed, hundreds of voices shouting in unison for Oliver's death.

"KILL - HIM! KILL - HIM! KILL - HIM!" they chanted, some punching their fists in the air. Smith listened, savouring the moment. The men had demanded Oliver's death before, but on that occasion it had served Smith's purpose to keep the young hero alive. Now it was different – now it was time for Oliver to die.

Again Smith raised his hand. The men fell silent, wondering if this time their leader would give them what they wanted. Smith looked down at his victim, lying helpless at his feet.

"The boys have spoken, Queen," he said, pulling a gun from his jacket and placing his foot on Oliver's chest. "Time for you to die, Green Arrow."

His heart pumping faster and faster in his chest, he levelled the gun at Oliver's head. This was what it had all been building towards, the moment he knew that he would remember for the rest of his life. He was going to be the man who killed the Green Arrow, the man who brought to an end the life of leader of the Justice League. It was a moment to relish – a moment unlike any other he would ever experience, even if he lived to be a hundred.

"Any last words before I blow your brains out, pretty boy?"

"Go to hell!" choked Oliver. Despite everything, his eyes sparkled brightly. He knew death was near – he would meet it with courage, with a bravery that would make Chloe and the guys proud.

Smith's finger tightened on the trigger.

"Goodbye, Green Arrow," he said, taking aim at Oliver's forehead. "It's been fun – it really has."

For a split second time seemed to stand still, the chaos and noise of moments earlier replaced with an eerie silence.

Then a single gunshot echoed round the hall.

* * *

Is Ollie dead? It would shock you if he was, wouldn't it? Anything's possible - all I will say is that there is a lot more action to come in the next few chapters, and some twists which might surprise you. I enjoyed writing this one - always great to get back to writing Ollie, especially when he is being the awesome hero he is in the face of impossible odds. I've just watched Dominion again, and I guess that influenced this chapter a little. How amazing is Oliver in that episode? Have to say, I'm missing Green Arrow and Justin so much at the moment - autumn's not the same without the excitement of looking forward to a new Ollie ep. I so hope Justin gets a big recurring role on another show soon - I know he's on an episode of Chuck that's coming up, but I need him on my TV again now!

Thanks so much for reading, and of course a huge, huge thank-you to my amazing reviewers - you really are the reason why I keep updating! Please do post a review if you can - a few words really can make so much difference, and I appreciate and value them so much!


	37. Chapter 37: Birth of a Hero

**Chapter Thirty Seven: Birth of a Hero**

Oliver heard the shot. He flinched, readying himself for the impact of the bullet that must surely kill him. It was an instinctive reaction – reason said that as soon as the bullet hit he would be dead. He waited, his eyes screwed tightly shut.

Nothing.

A second passed, then another. Something was wrong – surely he should be dead by now?

His eyes sprang open. Smith still stood over him, but his expression had changed. He appeared surprised, stunned even – his features frozen in a strange, wide-eyed stare. It made no sense – until blood began to ooze from the man's half open mouth. Oliver knew immediately that he had been shot, the tiny bullet wound in Smith's forehead confirming it.

Oliver couldn't believe it. He'd thought this was it – that his luck had at last run out. Now, watching Smith slump lifeless to the floor beside him, he realised that once again he had cheated death. Perhaps there was someone watching over him up there after all – but how? How was this possible?

"_Don't move! We have you surrounded – any further resistance and we will shoot!"_

The words, spoken through a loudhailer, echoed across the hall. All eyes turned upwards, to the walkways that ran down each side of the cell block. There, their guns trained downwards in the direction of the inmates who moments earlier had been demanding Oliver's death, stood between thirty and forty men, all wearing black jumpsuits and balaclavas. Instantly everyone understood; whilst the men had been enjoying Oliver's duel with Malone the authorities had been preparing their counter-strike, obviously reinforced with specialist forces from outside.

Oliver sighed, his head falling back to the floor. It was over, and, against all the odds, he'd survived.

Some of the inmates had other ideas. Many of them were armed, having seized weapons from the guards and ransacked the armoury. They knew that they could expect no mercy from the men who now stared down at them – too many guards had been killed for that. Surrender would mean punishment, even torture, and certainly any hope that they might have had of getting out of Nemesis was over. For many, going down fighting was better than a future spent locked up year after year in this place; giving in was not an option.

Shots rang out. It was unclear whether they'd come from the men on the walkways, or from someone the crowd. Not that it mattered, for it was just the trigger for all hell to let loose. Bursts of automatic gunfire rent the air as the men who surrounded Oliver made a dash for whatever cover they could find. Some made for the cells, whilst others ducked behind upended pieces of furniture, training their weapons upwards and returning fire. As the gunfire increased the sound became deafening, shots ricocheting in all directions as the hall became a kill zone. The outcome wasn't really in doubt – the men on the walkways were clearly highly trained professionals, and they took out the prisoners with clinical precision. Men started to drop like flies, gunshot wounds to their backs and heads felling them instantly. However, some of the inmates were determined to give as good they got, and enough of them were skilled in handling a weapon for the fight to last more than just a few minutes. By the time it was over, a lot of men would be dead – and Oliver was determined not to be one of them.

As the gunfire erupted all around him he lay absolutely still on the floor. He was acutely aware of how vulnerable he was. Not only was he out in the open, but the bright green leather of his costume made him an obvious target – not only for the men who just moments earlier had been baying for his blood, but also perhaps for the men who now were firing down from the gangways above. These men were almost certainly acting under Galton's orders, so who was to say they hadn't been told to shoot Oliver on sight? If the Green Arrow was killed in the crossfire of a prison riot no one would ask any questions – and Oliver knew his death would be very convenient for a man who would want his relationship with Smith kept secret. He might have cheated death once, but he was a long way from being safe – a very long way indeed. He needed to find some cover, somewhere to hide – but where?

Staying on the floor, he looked to his left and right. Five or six men lay dead nearby, pools of blood forming by their bodies. He could see no obvious escape route. Bullets landed just inches away from him, embedding themselves in Smith's corpse and causing it to spasm involuntarily; amidst the turmoil of the moment, the irony of his tormentor in death saving his life was not lost on the young hero. It was clear he couldn't stay put – next time he might not be so lucky. Saying a silent prayer, he hauled himself to his feet. He then made a dash for the nearest wall, half running and half stumbling around the dead bodies and upended tables that littered this makeshift battlefield. Miraculously, he made it; not quite believing his luck, he then crouched against the stonework, trying to figure out what to do next.

The firefight was still raging, some of the inmates putting up stiffer than expected resistance. Glancing upwards, Oliver could see the uniformed men making their way down towards ground level, clearing out the upper cells as they went. He watched as two men were dragged from a cell on the third floor, their hands raised in surrender; immediately they were shot in the head, their bodies falling over the railings and tumbling to the ground. Whoever these guys were, they were not in the business of taking prisoners, which made finding an escape route even more imperative. Oliver knew, however, that he was in no fit state to make a run for it, even if he could identify a possible way out. The beating he'd received from Malone had left him shattered. Every muscle in his body was screaming out in pain, and, although he couldn't be certain, he suspected a couple of his ribs were broken. It had been difficult enough covering the few yards from where he'd lain to the relative safety of the wall – how on earth was he going to be able to do anything more?

Suddenly he was aware of a shadow falling over him. He looked up, to find Malone towering over him. He was a terrifying sight. Two bullet wounds could be seen in his left shoulder, blood oozing from the wounds and mixing with the ink of his tattoos so that he looked little short of monstrous. His eyes were wild, blazing with a mixture of madness and exhilaration. His intention was clear – he'd come to claim his kill.

"Time to die, motherfucker!" he shouted, his voice hoarse and rasping. He pulled a gun from his waistband and aimed it directly at Oliver's head. There was nothing Oliver could do – Malone had him cornered, and there was no way out. He tensed, watching as Malone's finger tightened on the trigger...

Suddenly Malone's expression changed - he froze, a look of surprise and incomprehension on his face. Oliver saw the exit wound in the man's chest just as the blood began to pour from his half open mouth; moments later he fell to his knees, before toppling face first onto the floor. He'd been shot – but by whom?

"Thought you could do with some help."

Oliver looked up. Roy was standing there, a gun in his hand.

"What the...?" said Oliver, not quite believing his eyes. Minutes earlier his friend had been a prisoner – now he'd just saved his life.

"Hey, you're not the only one who knows how to handle himself in a fight," replied Roy, ducking down as a burst of gunfire sounded close by. "Now do you want to get out of here, or do you just want to talk?"

In spite of everything, Oliver smiled. Amidst all the horrors of the previous hours, to see his friend alive and well was a huge relief. Roy seemed to represent hope – and, after all he'd been through, he needed that more than anything.

The young man reached out, offering his hand. Oliver took hold it, pulling himself to his feet.

"Can you make it?" asked Roy, seeing his friend sway a little. He'd been forced to watch the beating handed out to Oliver minutes earlier; it seemed a miracle the young hero was still alive, let alone able to walk.

"I'm okay," replied Oliver, grimacing; the wound in his shoulder was playing up, and his muscles showed no signs of recovering from the abuse they had just suffered.

"Here, let me help," said Roy. He took Oliver's arm, placing it over his shoulder so that he could support him. "Ready?"

Oliver looked at Roy, relief and gratitude writ large on his face. "Ready."

The two men began to move. Roy led the way, guiding Oliver around the debris that littered the floor. They were lucky; the focus of the firefight had shifted to the other side of the hall, and they were able to travel the twenty or so yards to their destination without attracting attention. Eventually they arrived at a door. Oliver was breathing heavily now, the exertion required to move even a short distance leaving him physically drained. Roy propped him against the wall, before punching a code into the electronic keypad. A green light appeared; immediately Roy grabbed the handle, flinging the door open.

"All that time I spent in the infirmary, I didn't just learn first aid," said Roy, seeing the look of surprise on Oliver's face. "Sometimes the doc got careless – it's amazing what you can learn reading someone's emails."

He didn't say anymore, but simply took Oliver under the arms and guided him through the door. The room beyond appeared to be a guardroom, with banks of monitors showing live pictures of all areas of the main hall. Carefully Roy guided Oliver to a chair, before returning to close the door. His face a study in concentration, he then entered a code into another keypad, this time located on this side of the door way.

"There – that should hold them," he said after a few seconds, standing back and obviously satisfied with his work.

"What have you done?"

"Entered an override code. It's what the guards use when there's a lockdown – no one can get in here now unless we want them to."

Oliver looked at Roy, who was now staring intently at the monitors, watching the fight outside enter its final stages.

"You're quite something, you know that?" he said, tiredness mixing with admiration; he'd known Roy was different from all the other inmates, but nothing had prepared him for what he'd seen over the previous two minutes. The teenager had saved his life – put his own life on the line in order to save his. He'd been brave, but also strong and quick witted; a true hero, no less. He reminded Oliver of Bart – there was that same bravado, that same sense of youthful invincibility.

"It looks like it will all be over soon – those guys in the black uniforms have made it to the ground level," said Roy, totally wrapped up in what he was seeing on screen.

"Roy."

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

"For what?"

"For saving my life."

Roy looked at Oliver. He appeared embarrassed, unsure about how to respond.

"Well I couldn't let you die, could I? You promised to teach me how to handle a bow, remember?" he said awkwardly, turning back towards the monitors.

Oliver smiled. What had Smith called Roy? His sidekick? Perhaps, if they got out of this in one piece...

"That's it – it's over!" said Roy, studying the screens carefully. "Those guys have shouldered their weapons – they're in control now."

Oliver slowly got to his feet, joining Roy in front of the computer screens. The kid was right – it was all over. As he watched he could see the uniformed men checking some of the empty cells, rounding up prisoners and marching them away with their hands on their heads. At least they were not killing in cold blood any more – perhaps the moment of danger really had past.

"What now?" asked Roy, looking to Oliver for guidance. "Do we surrender, or sit it out here for a while?"

"We wait..." said Oliver, studying the scenes playing out just beyond the locked door more and more intently. For some reason he felt uneasy, but he couldn't put his finger on why...

"Look – there's Galton," said Roy, pointing at one of the screens. Nemesis's second in command could be seen standing in the center of the hall, surrounded by a group of men. He was talking to one man in particular, who, unlike the others, was dressed in a suit. The man had his back to the camera, but Oliver didn't need to see his face to know the identity of the mystery man.

"Who's the bald guy?" asked Roy innocently, again turning towards Oliver. His friend was ashen faced, every drop of color draining from his cheeks.

"Lex..." he whispered, transfixed by the image on the screen. At that moment Luthor turned, and for a moment stared straight up into the lens of the camera. It was as if he were looking straight at Oliver, as if he knew he was there...

Suddenly there was a loud banging at the door.

"Who's in there? Come out with your hands up!"

Roy and Oliver exchanged glances. They were trapped – and there was no way out.

* * *

Roy to the rescue - yay! I'm really enjoying developing him as a sidekick, and I hope you're enjoying reading about him too. This chapter was fun to write - lots of action, and of course a cliffie at the end to keep you guessing. Lex's arrival at Nemesis can only be bad news for Ollie - just how bad, you'll have to wait and see...

Thanks for reading. The last chapter didn't produce quite the response that some others have, which was a little disappointing. Please do review if you can - even a few words can really make my day, and all the hours spent writing seem so much more worthwhile when you know that someone's reading!


	38. Chapter 38: Hunted

**Chapter Thirty Eight: Hunted**

"Well, where is he?" asked Lex, a hint of irritation in his voice.

"We're searching for him now, Mr Luthor," replied Galton, obviously discomforted by his paymaster's frustration. "We lost sight of him during the firefight – he can't have got far."

Lex frowned. Engineering a riot at Nemesis to hide the Warden's murder had been his idea, and he'd had no objection to allowing Smith to play his little game with Oliver. However, things had got out of hand – Smith had gone way beyond what Lex had sanctioned, and he was all too aware that if his men had arrived just a few minutes later then Oliver would almost certainly be dead by now, Smith's bullet splattering his brains all across this godforsaken hellhole. He'd come within a hair's breadth of being cheated of what he believed was his by right; _he_ would be the one to kill Oliver, not some psychopath who got off on torturing people. Now, as if that was not enough, his prize had disappeared. Flying in he'd had visions of Oliver being brought before him in chains, forced to his knees to beg for his life. He'd not expected to instead find his prisoner on the loose, with no one seeming to have a clue about where he might be. It was something else which wasn't going exactly according to plan – only a temporary blip, certainly, but another example of things going awry. Standing in the center of the hall and surveying the aftermath of the riot, Lex was more certain than ever that he had made the right decision. It was time to end this – the sooner Oliver was dead the better.

Two of Lex's men approached, holding one of the captured inmates between them. The man looked terrified; he'd seen the retribution meted out to some his fellow prisoners, and he clearly feared for his life.

"This man says he saw Queen," said one of the men, jabbing his gun in the prisoner's side. "Tell Mr Luthor what you told me."

"He went into the guard's room," blurted out the man, his eyes wide with fear. "The kid was with him – he knew the code."

"Kid – what kid?" demanded Lex, looking from the prisoner to Galton.

"Roy Harper - Roy Harper was with him."

"Roy Harper?"

"He worked in the infirmary," said Galton, eager to take the opportunity to sound authoritative in front of Lex. "Seems he and Queen struck up a friendship there."

"Will he be a problem?"

"He's just a kid – he won't give us any trouble."

"And where's this guards' room?"

"Over there."

Galton pointed towards the far side of the hall, where two of Lex's men could be seen standing by a door. They appeared agitated, and as they watched one of them threw himself against the door, obviously trying to break it down.

Galton and Lex exchanged glances. Lex then set off in the direction of the room, Galton and his heavily armed minders not far behind.

"It won't open – we think someone's inside," said one of the men as Lex arrived. He sounded defensive, perhaps sensing that his failure to gain entry had assumed greater importance in the eyes of his boss.

"Get this door open – now!" ordered Lex sharply.

"We've tried, Mr Luthor – the lock's too strong," responded the other guard lamely.

"Then shoot it off!"

The guards needed no further prompting. They stood back, took aim, and fired. Each shot five or six rounds into the lock, but the door was left unscathed, the bullets appearing to bounce off harmlessly.

"The door is reinforced, Mr Luthor," said Galton nervously. "It's meant to act as a panic room for the guards in the event of a major outbreak of disorder. You could pack explosives against it and it wouldn't budge – once a code is typed into the keypad inside the room it's sealed up tight."

"And how would Oliver know this code – something else we can put down to this kid who won't be any trouble, I suppose?" said Lex accusingly, glaring at Galton. "I suggest you find a way of getting into this room fast – I'm not a man known for being patient, Mr Galton."

"It will take a few minutes to program in an override key," said Galton, hastily stepping forward and starting work on the electronic keypad. "But don't worry, Mr Luthor. This the only way into the room – Queen's trapped, I promise you."

It took Galton two minutes to reprogram the lock. His fingers fumbled over the buttons, as all the time he was aware of Lex standing close by, his impatient eyes boring into the back of his head. He was relieved when the light above the pad silently changed from red to green, indicating that at last the door was open. Lex nodded to his men, who took up positions either side of the door. Checking that everything was ready, one of them counted down silently, his fingers slicing through the air as everyone watched, tense and expectant...

Three... Two...

Suddenly a guard launched himself at the door, barrelling into it with such force it almost came off its hinges. Seven of Lex's men then dashed into the room, their weapons ready as they shouted instructions and commands. For a few agonising seconds nothing happened, Lex and Galton forced to wait outside as the men made the room safe. Eventually they heard a shout of "all clear," before one of the men emerged, a look of disappointment on his face.

"It's empty, sir – there's no one here."

Lex swept past, eager to see for himself. Inside he found his men standing around, obviously at a loss now that their target was missing. Lex scanned the room rapidly, his eyes searching for some clue as to what had happened. The room was small, and there was indeed only one entrance. However, almost immediately Lex's gaze was drawn upwards, towards a large grille near the ceiling. It was not fitted correctly, and a chair had been placed directly beneath; it didn't take a genius to work out what had happened.

"What was it you said, Mr Galton? Queen is trapped?" asked Lex, glaring at the other man. "Where does that lead?"

"It's a ventilation shaft – it connects to the system which serves the entire complex," replied Galton, realising as he spoke the significance of his words. If Queen had indeed escaped through the shaft then he could have made his way anywhere in Nemesis – a facility containing hundreds of rooms in a series of buildings scattered over a wide area.

"Don't worry, Mr Luthor – he won't get far," he continued, trying to sound convincing. "I'll put all of my men on it – we'll catch him, you have my word."

Lex looked at Galton, barely able to hide his contempt. The man had been a useful tool, but his failures were becoming more than simply an inconvenience. First his loose talk had forced him to engineer the riot, now he'd managed to let Oliver slip through his hands. It was clear he was out of his depth – and he certainly wasn't fit to be entrusted with the task of apprehending a man like Oliver Queen. He needed specialist help - the help of professionals.

Ignoring Galton, Lex turned to the tall man who had been at his side since his arrival at Nemesis. From the moment they'd got out of the helicopter which had borne them here he'd said nothing, watching in silence as the drama of the riot and Oliver's escape had unfolded. He returned Lex's gaze, knowing before the other man had said a word what he was about to be asked to do.

"Find him, Slade," said Lex quietly, his teeth gritted with barely restrained anger. "I don't care what it takes, but find him!"

Slade's lips twitched, the merest hint of a smile his only response to Lex's instruction.

"Alive?" he asked simply.

"Alive – bring him to me in chains and I'll double your fee."

Slade raised his hand. "I don't want your money, Luthor – this one's on the house."

He turned and strode purposefully out of the room. Outwardly he appeared emotionless, a cold, blank expression betraying nothing of what he felt inside. Because inside he _did_ feel something – an excitement, a quickening of the pulse as he thought of what lay ahead.

He always enjoyed a hunt – and something told him that this hunt was going to take him to a whole new level.

* * *

"Not far now – it's just up here."

As Roy spoke he glanced across at the man next to him. Oliver didn't reply; his face a study in grim determination, he continued to look straight ahead, as if he were willing himself on towards their destination. They'd been on the move for just under an hour now, and it was clear that Oliver was finding it hard going. It had been tough enough crawling through the ventilation system, but now they'd reached the lower levels he was really starting to struggle. Progress along the dimly lit corridors was painfully slow, Roy often having to support his friend as he started to tire. Three times they'd had to stop altogether, with Oliver unable to continue. Each time he'd leant against a wall, exhausted and in obvious distress as Roy stood guard. Roy had half expected to see Galton and his men round a corner in hot pursuit, but as time wore on he became more and more confident that they weren't being followed. The lower level was a labyrinth of narrow corridors, storerooms and generators; he was going to the most out of the way location he could think of, and if they were lucky it would be days before they were discovered.

He smiled to himself; once again those hours spent in front of the doctor's computer were paying off. He'd studied the plans to the Nemesis facility in minute detail, dreaming one day of putting his knowledge to good use by making his escape. He'd never expected to find himself helping Nemesis's most notorious inmate to evade capture, but nothing about the last few days could be described as predictable. He thought back to that moment when he'd made the decision to save Oliver from Malone. He could have done nothing; after all, with Smith's death his problems were over. It would have been easy to melt into the background, but instead he'd stepped in, not hesitating for even a second. Oliver had risked his life to save his, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to do the same for him. Oliver was his friend – apart from the doctor, perhaps the only real friend he'd had since he'd arrived at Nemesis. He didn't care if by helping him he was putting his own life at risk – what mattered was standing by a friend, whatever the cost.

At last they came to a halt. Supporting Oliver as best he could, Roy punched a code into an electronic lock, before pushing open a large grey door. Inside it was pitch black. Roy felt along the inside wall, searching for the light switch. He located it after a few seconds, and the two men found themselves looking at a moderately sized storeroom, lined on either side with rows of shelves which bowed alarmingly under the weight of the many boxes which had been piled high upon them. A thick layer of dust coated every surface, and more swirled in the air, the particles illuminated by the single bare bulb which hung from the ceiling. It was a dingy, cold place, the air thick with a damp, musty odour that spoke of many months of neglect. It wasn't much, but at least it was safe – for now at least.

Roy guided Oliver inside, before carefully helping him to sit on the floor. As he leaned back against the wall Roy could see far more clearly the extent of his friend's injuries. His shoulder wound was bleeding badly, saturating his tunic with blood. Cuts and bruises disfigured his arms and face, but most worryingly of all was his complexion. He looked ashen, all the color drained from his cheeks. His eyes were dull, as if exhaustion had robbed them of their lustre. Oliver was in a bad way – and he was getting worse.

"What is this place?" he asked, wincing as he shifted position, trying to get comfortable.

"It's a storeroom – they keep all the old records here," replied Roy, his eyes now focusing on Oliver's shoulder. The knife had cut deep into the flesh, and Roy knew that the wound required urgent attention.

"And you think we're safe here?"

"Yeah. Now everything's been transferred to computer no one comes here anymore," said Roy, pausing for a moment. "How are you feeling?"

Oliver forced a smile. "I've been better," he said, looking down at his shoulder. "But if I can just rest up for a while, then I think I'll be okay."

"What about your shoulder?"

"It's okay – nothing a few hours' rest won't cure."

Roy said nothing for a moment, before coming to a decision.

"I'm going to the infirmary. I've seen the doc patch up wounds like this before – if I can just get his kit..."

"Roy, no – it's not worth the risk, really," interrupted Oliver, alarmed by his friend's suggestion. The kid had saved his life once today – he couldn't allow him to put himself at risk a second time.

"It'll be okay – remember, I know this place better than anyone," said Roy, taking a step towards the door. "Stay here and rest – I'll be thirty minutes, max."

Oliver could see that he wasn't going to persuade Roy to change his mind. He leaned back, accepting the inevitable.

"Take care, okay?" he said simply, fixing the teenager with a powerful look.

"Always," replied Roy. He turned, and then was gone.

* * *

It took Roy just over ten minutes to make his way to the infirmary. Without Oliver to worry about he was able to move quickly, and by using less well used corridors his journey passed off almost without incident. Only once had he encountered some guards; they'd not seen him, so it was easy to simply double back and make his way around them.

Much to his relief, he found the infirmary deserted. Part of him had wanted to find the doctor there, so that he could ask him what to do; however, he knew that the presence of the doc would inevitably have meant the presence of guards, and the certainty of capture and interrogation. Quickly he made his way to the storeroom, where he began to collect everything he thought he'd need to help Oliver. Grabbing a bag, he stuffed it full of bandages and painkillers, as well as bottles of water and whatever food he could lay his hands on; if they were to spend time holed up down on the lower level they would need the essentials just to stay alive. It took him a matter of seconds to locate what he needed, but just as he was about to leave he heard a noise from somewhere behind him.

Pulling the gun that he'd used to kill Malone from his belt, he immediately whirled round.

"Who's there? Come out or I'll shoot!" he demanded, his voice tense and anxious. Outside the storeroom the infirmary appeared empty, just as it had been when he'd arrived.

Roy moved cautiously to the doorway. Clenching the gun tightly in his hand, he peered outside. His nerves were on edge; whatever his eyes were telling him, in his head his instincts were screaming that he was not alone.

"Show yourself," he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "I know you're there, so come out with your hands up!"

He sensed movement to his left. He turned, finger poised over the trigger of his gun.

"Whoah, don't shoot dude!" said a voice. As Roy watched, a man edged into view from behind an open door. He wasn't one of Galton's men, and nor was he one of the inmates. In fact, it was someone Roy had never seen before in his life – a young man, about the same age as himself, dressed head to toe in a pair of red pants and a red hoodie...

"Don't move!" ordered Roy, pointing his gun directly at the stranger. "Don't move or I'll shoot!"

"Whatever you say, dude – you're the boss," replied the other man, raising his hands in the air in a gesture of submission.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?"

"My name's Bart – Bart Allen," said the man confidently, as if being held at gunpoint was nothing to be worried about. "I'm looking for a friend of mine – maybe you know him? Good looking dude, wears a lot of leather – answers to the name Green Arrow."

* * *

No prizes for guessing where this is heading - a Bart versus Roy showdown! Who comes out on top? You'll have to wait and see...

Real life is closing in again, so finding time to write is getting more and more difficult. I've started the next chapter, but I'm not sure whether it will be finished by next week - you might have to wait a bit longer, I'm afraid.

Thanks as always to my amazing reviewers - without you I would just walk away. Please, please do post some feedback if you can - you have no idea of the power of reviews to inspire and create joy!


	39. Chapter 39: Betrayal

**Chapter Thirty Nine: Betrayal**

"_I'm looking for a friend of mine – maybe you know him? Good looking dude, wears a lot of leather – answers to the name Green Arrow."_

Roy didn't move. His mind was racing, trying to get to grips with what was happening. Instinct told him that this was some sort of trap, and yet nothing seemed to add up. Where was this guy's back-up? And what about the costume – how the hell did that get-up make any sense? He gripped the gun tighter, drawing strength from its reassuring touch; however unnerved he felt by Bart's appearance, he was still in control.

"Dude, I don't want to hurt you – I just want to..."

"Stay where you are!" ordered Roy, sensing Bart was about to move.

"Okay, okay, stay cool, yeah?" said Bart, trying to take the heat out of the situation. He could see that Roy was in a high state of tension, and that one wrong move could have potentially lethal consequences.

"How do you know Oliver?"

"So you do know him?" replied Bart, his face lighting up. "Do you know where he is? We need to..."

"Answer my question!" said Roy, interrupting for a second time.

"I'm Bart Allen – part of Ollie's team? Look dude, if you know where he is, then you gotta take me to him, fast. Luthor's here to kill him – we gotta get him outta here, before it's too late."

Roy hesitated. Oliver had talked about his team during his stay in the infirmary. Impulse, Aquaman, Cyborg – he'd heard so much about them he almost felt as if he knew each of them individually. This guy did look and sound like the kid Oliver had described; confident, impatient, almost arrogant. But still he wasn't sure – hadn't Oliver told him that his friends had all been captured by Lex Luthor? How then could he be here, now, standing in Nemesis's infirmary claiming to be on a rescue mission?

"How did you find this place? It's top secret – no one outside the government knows it exists."

"Luthor knows, doesn't he? After me and the guys escaped from Lex's hospitality we tracked him here. We know he wants to kill Ollie – he wants him dead before we get a chance to save him."

It did all make sense. Roy hadn't said anything about knowing that Bart had been captured – he'd volunteered that information without any prompting by him. And after all he'd heard about Lex's vendetta against Oliver, it did seem all too likely that the man's presence here was a sign that he'd come to finish the job. Maybe Bart was on the level – maybe he was here to save Oliver...

"We – you said we," said Roy, thinking out loud. "There's more of you?"

"Aquaman and Cyborg are checking out other parts of this place – we figured we'd cover more ground if we split up."

Again, a plausible answer. Roy wanted to believe, but still something held him back...

"You know where Ollie is, don't you?" asked Bart, reading the other man's face. "Look man, please – we need to get to him, _now_."

Roy felt the urgency in the other man's words. Oliver's life was at stake, but if he made the wrong call...

He needed proof – something that would convince him beyond all doubt that Bart was who he said he was.

"You're Impulse, right?" he asked.

Bart nodded.

"Then do that thing you do – superspeed, or whatever you call it."

Bart grinned. "You mean like this?"

Roy felt a rush of air, and suddenly Bart was gone. Panicking, he looked to his left and right, but found nothing.

"Up here, dude."

Roy looked down to the far end of the infirmary. Bart was standing there, casually leaning against a wall.

"Seen enough?" he asked. Roy nodded, his mouth half open in amazement.

"Good."

Roy turned, to find Bart standing in front of him once more.

"So where's Oliver? Can you take me to him?"

Roy hesitated for a moment, but then made his decision.

"He's on the lower level. He's injured, but I think he'll be okay," he said, the release of tension audible in his voice.

"Thanks, man," said Bart. "We're gonna get him out of here – we're gonna get you both out of here." He then placed his hand to his right ear, activating his earpiece.

"Aquaman, Cyborg, do you read me? I've got a fix on Arrow's location – he's on the lower level. Meet me there as soon as you can, yeah?"

Roy watched as Bart listened to the reply. "They'll meet us there," he said finally, tapping his ear piece and cutting the com link.

"How will they find us?"

"We each carry trackers – helps if one of us gets into trouble."

Roy nodded. "Follow me – it's about ten minutes from here."

He turned, grabbed his bag of supplies and made for the door. Behind him, Bart followed. He was grinning from ear to ear. It was a malicious grin, born of the knowledge that it hadn't been his former friends who he'd just been talking to – it had been Lex's command center.

"_Stupid fuck," _he thought to himself, staring at Roy's back. _"Think you're saving Oliver? You've just signed his death warrant."_

* * *

Oliver sat on the floor of the storeroom, lost in thought. After the intensity of his fight with Malone and his subsequent escape with Roy, he was relieved to be able to give his battered body a few minutes' precious rest. It was an opportunity to recuperate, both physically and emotionally. It wasn't just his muscles that had taken a pounding; he'd come within a hair's breadth of taking a bullet to the brain, and only now was that reality really starting to hit home. Another half second, and he'd have been dead. Could it be true? Was there really someone up their watching over him? If there was, they had a funny way of showing it – saving him from one psychopath, only to leave him just one step ahead of another. Seeing Lex on that computer screen had sent a shiver down his spine. There could only be one reason why he was here – to heap more torment on him, perhaps even kill him. A thought recurred in his mind, a thought that always resurfaced when he was alone with his thoughts:

_Why me? Why is this happening to me?_

He'd read comic books as a kid, dreamt of being a superhero. The Green Arrow had been an opportunity to live out his fantasy - a real life hero, fighting evil and righting wrongs. Pulling on those leathers had made him complete, given his life the purpose it had lacked after the death of his parents. He'd enjoyed being the good guy, the man who always escaped to fight another day. For two years he'd lived the dream, and everything had been perfect – until Dean's death and his unmasking had caused his world to come crashing down around him. It wasn't like this in the comic books – something would have happened by now, an opportunity to turn the tables so that good prevailed once more. But nothing had happened. There had been no rescue, no turning of the tide. Only now was Oliver really beginning to understand: in real life, sometimes, the bad guy wins.

He dismissed the thought – at that moment, it was a truth he preferred not to confront. His mind turned to Roy. He'd saved his life, and not just because he'd shot Malone. Amidst all the squalor and degradation of Nemesis, Roy reminded him of the essential goodness of the human spirit. It had taken guts to shoot Malone, not to mention helping him to escape. He'd not hesitated, even though he must have known that by helping him he was making himself a marked man. That was courage, pure and simple – and the kid was tough, too. Oliver couldn't help but compare him to Bart. Maybe Bart was a little more streetwise, Roy a little less comfortable in his skin, but otherwise they were remarkably alike – both were young, optimistic, fearless in the face of danger. They'd make quite a team, not that that would ever be possible now...

The sound of footsteps brought him back to the present. Immediately his nerves were on edge, alert to possible danger. Were they Roy's footsteps, or someone else's? For a split second he imagined his friend captured by Lex, another human weapon to be used against him. After everything he'd been through, to see Lex destroy another innocent life in his relentless vendetta – it was just too much to bear...

"Oliver, it's me – Roy," said a voice from just outside the door.

Oliver breathed a sigh of relief: the kid was safe.

The door swung open, and Roy stepped into view. He appeared excited, agitated, as if he had some vital piece of news he was bursting to tell.

"Ollie, it's going to be okay," he said breathlessly, a broad smile on his face. "Your guys are here – they've come to get you out!"

Oliver didn't understand. "What do you mean, what guys?" he asked, bemused.

"_Your _guys – the Justice League!" continued Roy, stepping to one side of the door. "Look who I found looking for you in the infirmary!"

Bart stepped into the room. Oliver's jaw dropped – never in a million years had he expected this. Speechless, he just stared at his friend, as if he were a vision from another world.

"Hello, Oliver," said Bart slowly. As soon as he spoke, Oliver knew that something was wrong. There was a slight sneer in his voice, and a strange half smile danced on the corners of his mouth. Above all, there were his eyes – cold and vicious, they were not the eyes of the Bart he knew...

"We're going to get out of here – can you believe that?" said Roy, his face lit up with almost childlike excitement. He never saw Bart pull the gun from his utility belt. Brutally he brought its butt crashing down on Roy's head; the young man fell to the floor, a trickle of blood quickly mixing with the dust which lay all about.

Instinctively, Oliver made to get to his feet, desperate to help his stricken friend.

"Don't try it, Ollie," said Bart coldly, pointing the gun at Roy's head. "The dude's brave – shame if I had to put a bullet in him."

"Bart... What...What are you doing?" stuttered Oliver, watching with a mixture of amazement and horror as Bart stepped over Roy's body and walked over to where he sat.

"What's the matter, Ollie? Thought you always had a smart ass comment up your sleeve," he sneered, now pointing the gun at his former friend. His free hand moved to his earpiece, tapping it as he'd done on so many missions in the past; never did Oliver expect him to utter the words he was now about to hear:

"Control, this is Impulse. I got him – I got Green Arrow."

There was a pause, Bart listening to a voice at the other end of the line; all the time he stared at Oliver, a sickening grin on his face.

"No, no trouble. He's hurt pretty bad... Hey, take all the time you need, dude – tough guy here's going nowhere."

He tapped his earpiece, bringing the comlink to an abrupt end. "Lex's guys are held up – something about a broken elevator. Looks like we're going to have to wait – you okay with that, Ollie? I know – we could reminisce about old times! Remember those, Ollie – remember all those good times we had together, just you, me, AC and Victor?"

Oliver didn't know what to say – the situation was just too horrific for words. It was clear that Lex had got to his friend, brainwashed him in some way. It was nothing new, of course – the last time he'd fallen victim to one of Lex's traps it was because AC had been programmed to betray him. Knowing what had happened didn't make it any easier to bear, however. There was a viciousness to Bart's words, a casual cruelty that cut deep. Bart had always been special, the boy from the wrong side of the tracks who'd become almost like a kid brother to him. Always ready with a wisecrack, he'd been the life and soul of the League, gently mocking his teammates and defusing every situation with his own unique sense of humour. Not any more. The Bart who stood before him now was not the Bart he'd grown to love. This was a new Bart - cold, sarcastic, callous.

"Aww, have I shocked you?" continued Bart, perching on a box near to where Oliver sat. "Bart Allen, a traitor – and after all you did for me!"

"Bart, listen to me – this isn't you."

Bart laughed. "Don't bother, Ollie – I know what you're gonna say. _'Bart, you've been brainwashed by that evil Lex Luthor – let me save you'_ – please, do you think I'm gonna fall for that shit? I was brainwashed, sure – but not by Lex. _You're _the one who messed with my head – just like you messed with all of our heads. Well now you're gonna pay – Lex is gonna make sure of that."

"Bart, listen – I'm your friend, you've got to believe me," pleaded Oliver, trying to stay calm. As he spoke he knew it was hopeless – whatever Lex had done, Bart was too far gone to listen.

"Friend? You were never a friend to any of us!" said Bart contemptuously. "You just used us – used us in your vendetta against Lex. All those lies you told us, trying to convince us that Lex was the bad guy, when you were the bad guy all along!"

"That's not true – you know it's not true," said Oliver, stung by the harshness of Bart's words. "We were a team, Bart – a team, remember? And what about AC and Victor? What's Lex told you about them?"

"Lex couldn't save them. He tried, but they wouldn't believe him – they wouldn't believe the truth about you."

"Bart, listen to yourself! This is crazy. AC and Victor are your friends – are you really going to let them die?"

Bart's face darkened. "You killed them. Not me, not Lex – _you_."

"You're wrong," replied Oliver, his shock at Bart's transformation now starting to give way to feelings of frustration and despair. "Lex did this – Lex did all of this. Don't you see what he's done? How he's manipulating you?"

"Whoah, not getting angry now, are you Ollie?" sneered Bart, seeming to enjoy the other man's increasingly agitated state. "I thought the Green Arrow never lost his cool. Course that's the only thing you've got – that and some fancy gadgets and a leather costume. _We _were the ones' with abilities – not you. Lex is right – you're jealous of us, jealous that we've got something that all that money in those fat bank accounts of yours can't buy. And that's why you recruited us – so that you could use us in your fucked up crusade against Lex."

"Bart..."

"Shut up – shut the fuck up!" interrupted Bart, getting up and moving towards Oliver. He stood over his old friend, pointing the gun at his head. "You don't get it, do you? It's over – finished. All those times you lorded it over us, giving out the orders as if you were something special. Well I got news for you, Oliver. You're not special – you're nothing, do you hear? _Nothing."_

He almost spat out the final word, his eyes blazing with hate. Shaken, Oliver did not reply. This line of attack was nothing new – Lex had often taunted him with his own lack of powers. But to hear those words uttered by a friend, a brother... Whatever reason said about the truth about Bart's mental state, the words were like a dagger to Oliver's heart. It wasn't just the venom with which they were spoken; it was also the feeling that somehow those words were tapping into some deep seated well of resentment. Oliver had always feared that beneath the surface the men he'd recruited did not fully accept him as their leader. He was just a man, after all – as Bart had so brutally pointed out, he really was nothing special when compared to the team of heroes he had assembled. Were Bart's words really just the product of Lex's drugs? Or had those chemicals just brought to the surface what deep down he had really felt all the time?

"Look at you," continued Bart, squatting down next to where Oliver sat. The anger of moments earlier had faded, but Oliver could still see the cruelty in the teenager's eyes, the malicious kick he seemed to be getting from having his old friend at his mercy. He placed the point of the gun beneath Oliver's chin, using it to lever his head upwards.

"The Green Arrow, all fucked up," he said, a twisted smile curling on his lips. "I can't wait to see you die, Ollie. Are you scared?I bet you are – I bet you're so scared that when Lex puts a gun to your head you piss those leather pants of yours!"

He laughed, before pushing Oliver's head even further back so that the veins began to stand out on his neck.

"Bart..."

"I told you, SHUT THE FUCK UP!" snapped Bart, his anger reappearing out of nowhere. He rammed the barrel of the gun into Oliver's mouth, thrusting it so far down the young hero's throat Oliver thought he was going to choke.

"Do you like that, Ollie? Do you?" said Bart breathlessly, his excitement audible in his voice. "Cos I'm in control now, yeah? So you suck it – suck it, you smug sack of shit!"

Oliver wanted to gag. The point of the gun had sliced into the roof of his mouth, and he could feel the blood running down the back of his throat. All he could do was to stare at Bart, wide-eyed and desperate, and hope that somewhere deep down the kid he once knew would find his way back.

The cold eyes that stared back at him offered no hope.

He'd lost him – Bart was gone.

* * *

Evil Bart has Ollie! I love this scenario, because it pushes the angst and drama to a new level - hope you enjoyed it too. We're only five or six chapters away from the finale to this story, so you can tell that there are some big things to come - no clues, apart from to say there are more shocks ahead.

Sorry to say that you'll have to wait until December for the next update. Real life is leaving no time for writing, and I've also lost a little inspiration as people seem to be losing interest in what I'm doing. Not quite at the point of walking away, but certainly not feeling as excited about spending hours writing as I have done. Thanks to those of you who are reviewing -your comments help to keep me going. Please do post a review if you can - some encouragement is needed!


	40. Chapter 40: A Hero's Sacrifice

**Chapter Forty: A Hero's Sacrifice**

"_Do you like that, Ollie? Do you? Cos I'm in control now, yeah? So you suck it – suck it, you smug sack of shit!"_

Oliver could feel the blood trickling down the back of his throat as the point of the gun sliced ever deeper into the roof of his mouth. Speech was impossible, not that it would have done any good – the eyes of the teenager who now held him at his mercy told their own story. This was not the Bart that he had loved, the Bart he had rescued from the wrong side of the tracks. That Bart was gone. The vicious thug whose eyes flashed with excitement as he thrust the gun further down Oliver's throat was a grotesque shadow of his former friend; a sadistic psychopath, getting high on inflicting pain on a man he had once looked up to as the older brother he'd never had.

Seconds passed. Oliver's gag reflex was almost overpowering, but Bart showed no signs of relenting. He was enjoying himself too much, apparently intoxicated on the thrill of having a man he had been taught to hate so totally at his mercy. Oliver could feel himself starting to panic. The gun was so far down his throat he was convinced he was going to choke, and he was all too aware that if his airway was blocked his life might be in danger. Surely this couldn't be it? Surely, after all he'd endured, he wasn't going to die like this? It seemed impossible – just impossible...

"Does it taste good, Ollie? Does it?" said Bart. He spoke quickly, almost breathlessly, his exhilaration threatening to overwhelm him. Somehow, Oliver managed to force out a muffled plea for mercy, his words rendered cruelly inaudible by the gun; his eyes stared wildly at the teenager, begging him to stop...

"What was that? You want more?" said Bart, his grin widening. "Sure you can have more, Ollie – we're a team, remember?"

Laughing, Bart suddenly rammed the gun deeper into Oliver's mouth. Oliver winced in agony, before he was seized by terror.

_I can't breathe – dear God, I can't breathe!_

Panicking, he tried to pull away, but Bart was too quick for him; straddling Oliver, he pinioned him to the wall.

"Thought you wanted some more, Ollie?" he sneered. "Suck it, you fucker – suck it!"

Tears ran down Oliver's cheeks. He could feel his lungs beginning to burn, their need for oxygen growing greater by the second. Surely this wasn't what Lex intended? Didn't they want him alive? But Bart had always been hot-tempered, impetuous – who could tell what effect Luthor's drugs and brainwashing had had on his personality. He could feel himself becoming lightheaded; soon he would fall into unconsciousness, a prelude to oblivion. It seemed incredible, but at that moment, as his eyelids began to flicker, he believed it:

He was going to die – here, now, at the hands of a boy he had once called his friend.

Suddenly he was aware of movement away to his left. Barely had his brain registered that something was happening when an unseen force barrelled into Bart, knocking him clear of Oliver and causing the gun to clatter to the floor. Gasping for air, Oliver rolled onto his side, coughing and choking up blood. He was in agony; his lungs still burned and his throat felt as if it was on fire. He felt exhausted, disorientated, and as he lay helpless on the floor with his eyes tightly shut Bart's leering face filled his mind, laughing and taunting him.

_Please God, no more! Please, what have I done to deserve this?_

"Oliver, are you okay? Oliver, it's me – Roy."

Oliver opened his eyes, to find Roy leaning over him.

"Thank God!" exclaimed the teenager, his relief almost palpable. "I'm so sorry, Oliver – how could I have been so stupid? I should have known something was wrong – if I'd only..."

"Hey, it's okay," interrupted Oliver. His voice was weak, but despite everything he forced himself to smile. Not for the first time, the kid had saved his life; the last thing he wanted was for him to beat himself up for being taken in by Bart.

"Bart – where...?" he continued, pulling himself up and looking around. A few feet away his old friend lay face down on the floor, apparently unconscious.

"How...?"

"You don't survive here without learning how to handle yourself," replied Roy, offering his hand to Oliver. "Now come on – we need to get out of here."

With Roy's help, Oliver slowly got to his feet, grimacing as he did so. Every muscle in his body ached, the positive effects of the rest he'd enjoyed minutes earlier wiped out by Bart's vicious assault. He leaned against the wall, breathing heavily; exhausted, even standing up seemed to drain him of energy.

"Are you going to be okay?" asked Roy anxiously.

"I'll be fine – I'm the hero here, remember."

Again Oliver forced himself to smile. He wanted to reassure his friend, but deep down he knew that their chances of escape were now extremely slim. Luthor's men were on their way, and now that they had a fix on their location it would be very difficult to shake them off, especially as he was in such a bad way. He felt like a wounded animal, about to be hunted down by a pack of wolves; in this situation, there could be only one outcome.

"You won't make it – Lex has this place locked down tight."

Both men turned. Bart was still lying on the floor, but had come to; he scowled up at them, his expression a mixture of hate and contempt.

"He's going to kill you, Oliver – he's going to track you down and kill you," he continued, ignoring the gun that Roy now pointed in his direction and staring straight at Oliver. "Give it up, and save us all a lot of trouble – or do you want to take the kid down with you?"

"Bart..." Oliver started to speak, but words failed him. He didn't know what to say to the creature that lay before him. There was nothing he could do to bring the old Bart back – there was nothing he could do to bring any of them back. Lex had taken them all from him, so that now he was alone. At that moment, staring at his old friend and protégé, he knew:

The Justice League was dead.

"You're finished, Oliver," continued Bart. "Finished - I just hope I'm around to watch when Lex puts a bullet through your head."

Roy had heard enough. Without a word, he stepped towards Bart, before aiming a well placed kick straight at his head. Bart slumped back, unconscious once more.

"That should keep him quiet for a couple of hours," he said, turning towards Oliver. "Are you ready?"

Oliver looked down at Bart. He hesitated, before standing clear of the wall.

"Let's go," he said.

The two men exchanged glances. Both knew the dangers that lay ahead; the odds were stacked against them, but there was no alternative.

Without saying another word, the two men turned and made for the door.

* * *

They walked for the best part of an hour. The endless drab corridors all seemed the same to Oliver, with their long expanses of bare wall, interspersed with the occasional anonymous doorway. He had no idea where they were heading; Roy led the way, and he was content to follow, his mind elsewhere. Physically he was shattered, the never-ending beatings finally exacting their toll on a body that could endure no more. But it was not his aching muscles which filled his mind. Instead it was the memory of Bart's face as he pushed the barrel of that gun down his throat which haunted him, a memory so awful it felt as if it was seared into his sub consciousness. He had known that his team had fallen into Lex's clutches; Lex had delighted in showing him images of his friends in captivity, and the grainy pictures of AC imprisoned and terrified at the bottom of the ocean had been bad enough. But that was nothing compared to what he had just experienced – the raw, brutal reality of betrayal and defeat. It didn't matter that Bart had not been himself, that his mind had been warped and twisted by hours, perhaps days, of brainwashing. The stark truth was that Lex had won – he'd taken Bart from him, and turned him into a cold-blooded killer. Nothing could have prepared him for that, to see the hate that burned in those eyes; he was certain that Bart would have killed him had Roy not intervened. It felt as if everything he had worked for, everything he had stood for, had been lost at that moment, his dreams of being the all-conquering hero finally – cruelly - destroyed. Bart's words echoed around his head, mocking him, taunting him:

"_You're finished, Oliver."_

Broken in mind and body, Oliver knew that he was right.

Suddenly Roy came to a halt. Lost in thought, Oliver barely noticed, almost stumbling into the teenager before leaning, exhausted, against the wall.

"They repair the trucks through there," said Roy, nodding towards the door which stood in front of them. "I think I should be able to hotwire one of them – if we can make it to the perimeter fence then we can smash our way out of here before they know what's hit them."

Roy was animated, almost breathless with excitement. He appeared convinced his plan would work, even though reason and logic made it clear to Oliver that their position was all but hopeless. Even if they did dodge the machine guns that would inevitably open up on them as soon as they made their break for the fence, they had no chance of making good their escape. Nemesis was miles from anywhere, a secret installation in the middle of a country not renowned for its love of Americans; they'd be lucky to enjoy more than an hour of freedom before Lex's men hunted them down like dogs. And then what? Oliver could guess what Lex had in store for him, but that mattered less than what would happen to the teenager who now seemed willing to give up everything to save his life. As he watched Roy carefully move towards the doorway he felt a wave of emotion swell up within him, so powerful he could feel tears welling up in his eyes. Amidst all the torment he had suffered, all the degradation, Roy shone like a beacon. The kid was a true hero, selfless and brave; just like Bart had been, before Lex had corrupted his soul beyond all recognition. If Lex captured them, Roy would die – he was certain of that. He had no special powers, no abilities; Lex would have him killed, just as he'd had Dean killed.

"_Do you want to take the kid down with you?"_

Bart's words echoed around his head like some terrible reproach. He couldn't let it happen – not after what had happened to his team, to Dean. At that moment Oliver made a promise to himself:

He would save Roy Harper – whatever the price.

Without making a sound, Roy slowly pushed open the door. He stood for a moment, staring intently into the space beyond. He then turned, his eyes wide with excitement:

"The place is empty!" he whispered. "There's a truck over on the far side. Do you think you can make it?"

Oliver nodded, the force of Roy's optimism for a moment dispelling his doubts. He stood up from the wall, and followed his friend through the open door.

The area beyond was large, stretching away some distance towards a far wall. The sense of space was amplified by the high ceiling, perhaps three times the height of the corridor they had just left; just like the main hall, raised walkways stretched along either side, giving access to offices and workshops. All around were the signs of a vehicle repair shop, with equipment and old tires lying discarded to their left and right. Roy led the way, making straight for the truck which stood parked up away on the far side. Oliver followed, neither man making a sound. He fully expected a group of Lex's guards to suddenly appear on the raised walkways, their guns trained downwards in their direction, but as the seconds passed and nothing happened he found himself daring to believe that they might get away with it after all...

"Leaving already, Queen?"

The voice boomed ominously across the workshop, slicing through the silence. Both men stopped dead in their tracks, their heads turning instinctively upwards towards its source.

Oliver's heart missed a beat. There, standing on a walkway almost directly above the truck, stood Slade, his face wreathed in a broad grin.

"What, no greeting for your old pal Slade?" he continued, holding out his arms as if he were welcoming some long lost friend. "You disappoint me, Oliver – after all that we've meant to each other!"

Oliver did not reply. His survival instincts were already kicking in, his mind whirring as he tried to identify potential escape routes.

"Stay back – stay back or I'll shoot!" said Roy, aiming his gun in Slade's direction. After the initial shock of the other man's appearance, his confidence was growing. Slade was alone, and he appeared to be unarmed; to Roy's mind, it was he, not them, who was at a disadvantage.

"I see you've got a new sidekick, Queen," continued Slade, apparently unperturbed by the gun that was now being aimed at his head. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised – you always were a coward hiding behind the bravery of your, "_boys_."

He paused, allowing the emphasis he had placed on that last word to hang in the air like some unspoken accusation. Oliver understood what he was doing – he was trying to get under his skin, rile him into making the mistake that would be his, and Roy's, undoing.

"Shame I'll have to kill him. You really shouldn't have involved him, Oliver – such a waste."

Roy swallowed hard. He might have had the gun, but the certainty with which Slade talked about his death was unnerving in the extreme.

"It's me you want, Slade – leave the kid out of this," said Oliver, stepping forward and placing himself between Roy and his would-be captor.

Slade laughed, clapping his hands together in mocking applause. "The Green Arrow roars! I like it Oliver, I like it! But you can drop the act – we all know what a coward you really are, don't we?"

Slade stepped towards the edge of the walkway. Oliver tensed, sensing that Slade was about to make his move. He knew that they had only one chance to make their escape – and that only one of them could take it.

"When I give the signal, make for the nearest door on the right," he whispered to Roy, never once taking his eyes off the man who he knew was now coiled and ready to strike. Roy looked at him, almost open mouthed with surprise.

"But he's not armed!" he replied incredulously. "I can take him Oliver – I know I can take him!"

"Roy, please, trust me on this," said Oliver, glancing across at his friend. "I know this guy, and believe me – that gun can't save us."

Roy felt the color draining from his cheeks. There was something about the look on Oliver's face, a mixture of intense sadness and resolution, that impelled him to obey. He knew then they were in great danger, and that if he wanted to live he had to do as Oliver told him without question.

"What are you boys whispering about?" interrupted Slade. "Are you telling sidekick about what I did to your band of freaks, Oliver? How I made those so called heroes weep like bitches?"

Oliver did not reply. He and Slade stared at each other for a moment, hunter and hunted locked together, watching, waiting...

"Now!"

Oliver's command was followed by an explosion of activity. Roy found himself running towards the door, aware that Oliver was just a few paces behind. His heart pumping in his chest, his blood ran cold as once again he heard Slade's booming voice echoing through the air, taunting them as they tried to make their escape.

"Run, hero-boy, run!" he jeered, his words followed by laughter. "You can't escape, Oliver – you and your boy are mine!"

Roy reached the door. It was made of steel, a small window cut into it at head height. As Roy grabbed the handle and pulled it open he noticed that there were bolts located at its top, middle and bottom; he cursed his luck, realising that it would be impossible to seal off their escape route and prevent Slade from giving pursuit.

Once through the door he paused for a moment, panting as he waited for Oliver to follow. Then, suddenly, the door began to move. Panicking, he made a grab for the handle, but it was too late; the door slammed shut, leaving him alone in the narrow corridor. He pulled desperately at the handle, but it wouldn't budge. Realising the bolts had been pulled across, he looked up at the small window.

It wasn't Slade who stared back at him – it was Oliver.

"Oliver...!" he began, not yet understanding.

"Sorry, kid," said Oliver, his voice just audible through the reinforced glass. "This isn't your fight."

Roy's eyes widened in horror. Oliver was sacrificing himself, and he was now powerless to help him.

"Please, I can help you!"

"You've done enough, Roy, now go – get the hell out of here, while you still can."

Despite the desperate nature of the moment, Oliver appeared calm, almost serene. He nodded almost imperceptibly, and then turned away, ready to face his fate.

"Oliver, no!" shouted Roy, tears beginning to stream down his face. He pulled furiously at the door, but it wouldn't budge. He was a spectator now, forced to watch from a place of safety as Oliver squared up to Slade.

Slade now stood just a few feet from Oliver. He dwarfed his prospective prisoner, like a predator waiting to tear its prey to shreds.

"So the hero saves his sidekick – how noble!" he sneered, his lip curled in contempt.

"It's called friendship, Slade – something you'll never understand."

"I would have liked to have hunted you in your prime, Queen," continued Slade, looking at Oliver's battered body. "There's no challenge, taking you down like this."

"Really? Maybe next time," replied Oliver, a wry half smile forming on his lips.

Slade grinned. "Don't kid yourself, Queen – you and I both know there's not going to be a next time."

Both men paused, preparing themselves for what was to come. They both knew that what was about to happen could only end one way, but Oliver didn't care. He felt at peace, more at peace than he had for a long time. His fate was sealed, he knew that, but he had done what he had promised himself he would do: he had saved Roy's life.

"Well, are you ready?" asked Slade finally.

"Ready," replied Oliver.

"Then let's do this."

* * *

Did you think I'd given up?

First of all, a massive thank-you to all those who took the time to review the last chapter - your kind words and encouragement mean so, so much, and without your support I would probably be walking away right now.

Secondly, an apology. I'm sorry it has taken me so long to update - real life has been crazy, and when I've had some free time I've not had the energy to write. Hope you can forgive me, and that you are still interested in where this story is heading. I'm determined to finish it in the next 2-3 weeks, so stand by for more frequent updates - and some surprises! These last chapters are going to be epic, and I hope I can turn my ideas into a climax you will enjoy.

Please do post a review if you can. It means a great deal to know that you're out there, and appreciate what I'm doing -and who knows, if the support and interest is there, there might be another story to come!


	41. Chapter 41: Luthor's Justice

**Chapter Forty-One: Luthor's Justice**

_Roy's safe. I did it – Roy's safe._

The words kept repeating in Oliver's head, over and over again like some recording stuck on a loop. Oliver didn't want to let them go; they were like a shield, protecting him from the awful reality of his predicament. He was finished, he knew that, but in sacrificing himself so that Roy could escape he felt some measure of consolation. A final act of heroism which gave all he had suffered some meaning; after all he had lost, at least he could go to his death knowing that he had saved at least one life.

_All I have lost..._

Faces flashed into his mind, images of happier times. The guys were there, Bart, Victor, AC; they were laughing, laughing as if they didn't have a care in the world. They'd felt themselves invincible then, carrying all before them. The idea of defeat or death had never entered their minds; they had been the good guys, and good guys always win through in the end. And then there was Chloe. Her smiling face seemed so much more vivid than the others, so much so that he felt he could almost reach out and touch her, smell the sweet scent of her perfume as he buried his head in her soft, warm hair. How he had loved her – loved her more than words could ever adequately express. She was his Watchtower, the girl who had given him the most profound sense of personal joy and fulfilment. Did she know what she meant to him – how much he loved her? Those precious weeks they'd spent together had been the most magical of his life, weeks that he had thought were going to last a lifetime...

They were all gone now, of course. New images appeared in his head, vivid, shocking memories of the ordeal he had endured since this whole nightmare began. There was AC – brave, powerful AC, the man with a smile so broad you could not help but smile with him. Where was that smile now, as he lay paralysed and entombed at the bottom of the sea, terrified and alone? And then there was Bart, the street punk with a heart as big as his attitude. What had happened to that kid? What evil had turned him into a sadist, a man who got off on the thrill of torturing others? And Chloe – poor, uncomprehending Chloe. She'd looked so desolate in that courtroom as they'd led him away, as if her world had fallen in around her, and she couldn't understand why. He could only hope that she was safe, and that Clark had been able to protect her from whatever Lex had planned...

Suddenly a new image flashed into his mind. It was Chloe, but not as he remembered her. She was on her knees, her hands bound behind her back and a cloth gag tied tightly around her head. Tears streamed down her face, mixing with the blood that flowed from the cuts and bruises that disfigured her once flawless complexion. She stared straight at him, her eyes fearful, pleading...

What was this? Was this real? He wanted to reach out to her, hold her in his arms and comfort her, protect her. But he couldn't – he was paralysed, unable to move. And then Lex appeared, a gun in his hand. He placed it against Chloe's head. He said something, but Oliver didn't hear; he could only see Chloe, the cold terror in her eyes as Lex slowly pulled the trigger...

"NO!"

Oliver's eyes snapped open. For a split second he didn't understand. The room was empty – where was Chloe? What had happened? Confused and disorientated, he looked wildly to his left and right, trying to make sense of it all...

A nightmare... It had been a nightmare! Oliver slumped forwards, visibly relieved. Sweat poured down his face, and he could feel his heart pumping furiously in his chest. It had seemed so real! His mind was playing tricks on him, exhaustion and anxiety combining so that at times he could not separate truth from fiction. Silently he cursed himself; he knew that the endgame was approaching, and he needed to stay strong.

Slowly, he lifted his head. The cell in which he was being held was small and featureless, save for the heavy steel door a few feet in front of him. He had no idea how long he'd been there. He could remember momentarily coming to as some of Lex's men had chained him to the wall, but how long ago that was – well, who could tell? He'd drifted in and out of consciousness so often all sense of time passing escaped him. It must have been hours, though – he could tell that from the way his arms ached from supporting his weight for so long. He had been chained in a standing position, no doubt to deny him any respite from his torment; his arms stretched out to either side of him, shackled securely to the thick steel manacles which were fixed to the wall. So exhausted was he that he hadn't had the energy to stand on his own feet, instead slumping forward and hanging like a lifeless puppet, chains replacing strings as his tortured body tried to find some relief in the oblivion of sleep.

Slade had given him a hell of a beating. From the moment the two men made contact with each other Oliver knew that it was all over; physically he was no match for the other man, and in his weakened state his other great asset – his quick-footedness – eluded him. Slade had tossed him around that workshop like some unwanted rag doll, lifting him in the air and throwing him against wall after wall with the controlled ferocity of a professional killer. Resistance had been impossible, and all that he had been able to do was to try to put his mind in a quiet place as Slade had done his worst. The beating had seemed to last an eternity; Slade had been enjoying himself too much to end it quickly, revelling in bringing the final member of the Justice League to his knees. There was never any danger of him going too far, of course. Lex wanted Oliver alive, just as Slade wanted his pay check; Deathstroke knew his trade, and just how far he could hurt Oliver without putting his cash at risk.

Where was Lex? He'd expected him to have put in an appearance by now. He wasn't normally one to pass up an opportunity to gloat, and his non-appearance made Oliver uneasy. He knew that Lex intended to kill him, and naively he'd hoped that it would be quick – a bullet to the back of the head, or a knife to the gut. This delay unsettled him; instinctively he knew that Lex was planning something, something that would be in keeping with his perverted sense of the theatrical...

Suddenly he could hear voices in the corridor. He barely had time to pull himself upright before the door swung open, and Galton and the doctor stepped into the cell.

"So, sleeping beauty's awake at last!" said Galton, smiling broadly as he eyed Oliver up and down. "Patch him up, doc – Mr Luthor wants our guest here to look his handsome best!"

Grinning, he turned and left, leaving the doctor behind. He looked nervous, his eyes wide and fearful as he stood staring at Oliver's shattered body.

"My God, what have they done to you..." he whispered, obviously shocked by Oliver's appearance.

"You don't look so good yourself, doc," quipped Oliver, forcing a faint smile to his lips. He was relieved to see the doctor; he'd been good to him when he'd been in the infirmary, and was, apart from Roy, the only person who'd shown him any kindness since his arrival at Nemesis.

There was silence for a few seconds, the doctor apparently at a loss to know what to do.

"I could really do with some water," said Oliver finally. The request seemed to snap the other man back to reality. He stepped forward, opening his medical bag as he did so; a few seconds later and he was holding a bottle of water to Oliver's parched lips, his face a picture of anxiety and concern.

"I don't have long," he whispered, looking over his shoulder as he spoke. "This man Luthor has taken over – Galton seems to be taking orders from him. Dozens of men are dead – it's terrible, just terrible! Do you know what happened to Roy? They won't tell me anything – please, tell me he's alive!"

Oliver could see the desperation in the doctor's eyes, the sense of dread that his young assistant might be among those who'd lost their lives.

"It's okay, doc – Roy's alive," he said, trying his best to sound reassuring. "He got away – I made sure of that."

The two men exchanged glances.

"Thank you," said the doctor simply. He paused for a moment, before he began to apply antiseptic to some of the cuts and bruises which scarred Oliver's face and arms.

"Who is this man Luthor – what does he want?"

"He wants me, doc – he's here to kill me."

Oliver spoke so calmly, but the impact of his words caused the doctor to stop what he was doing. He looked Oliver in the eye, clearly searching for some signal, some guidance as to what he should do.

"I want to help, Oliver, but what can I do? Luthor's men are everywhere – there's just no chance..."

"Do you have access to a phone?"

The doctor hesitated, obviously wary of where this was heading.

"Call the Daily Planet in Metropolis – ask for Lois Lane..."

"Oliver! We really must stop meeting like this!"

Oliver looked up. Lex stood silhouetted in the doorway, exultant.

The doctor paled, clearly terrified that his exchange with Oliver had been overheard. He stepped aside, shrinking away into the corner of the cell as Lex stepped forward, supremely confident.

"Did you think I'd forgotten you, Oliver?" he asked, looking his captive up and down. "I'm sorry I haven't visited before now, but you know how it is – now that I'm running LuthorCorp and Queen Industries, I'm just rushed off my feet!"

Oliver gritted his teeth. Lex loved to play games, but he was in no mood to rise to the bait.

"You don't look so good, Oliver," continued Lex, suddenly frowning in an expression of feigned concern. "I know Nemesis is not quite what you're used to, but really, you could have made the effort – you've really let yourself go."

Still Oliver did not respond; instead he scowled at Lex, silently defying him to do his worst.

"I hear you've made quite an impression since you've been here – my friend Mr Galton has been filling me in. The boys here just love having a celebrity in their midst – tell me, have you signed many autographs? I'm sure when you're dead they'll be worth a fortune!"

"Cut the crap, Lex," snapped Oliver, unable to contain himself any longer. "We both know you're here to kill me, so spare me the master villain reveals his evil plan routine - I've heard it all before, remember?"

Lex laughed. "Oliver, Oliver – you really shouldn't be in such a hurry to die! Besides, I'm a law-abiding man. Never let it be said I denied a man his constitutional rights – even a terrorist like you deserves a fair trial."

Oliver hesitated, sensing that Lex was about to reveal his hand. "What do you mean, "trial"? I've had a trial – or don't you remember how you framed me?"

"Ahhh, yes – your trial," said Lex, tilting his head slightly to one side as his lips curled into a strange smile. "Quite the sensation, wasn't it? But I missed it, Oliver – I missed it! That's why I think we need a _new _trial – one where I can be sure to get a front row seat."

At that moment Galton stepped into the cell.

"Everything's ready, Mr Luthor – it's all set up just as you ordered."

"And the jury?"

"All sworn in," replied Galton, grinning at some private joke.

"And is Mr Queen here ready to face trial, doctor?" asked Lex, never once taking his eyes from the young hero who stood shackled before him.

"Yes... Yes, he's fit to..." stammered the doctor, obviously horrified by the turn of events.

"Good! Then what are we waiting for? Galton, have your men get our leather clad friend here ready, will you?"

Galton and Lex stepped aside, making way for two guards who entered the cell. They unlocked Oliver from the cuffs which had held him to the wall, before roughly forcing his arms behind his back and tying his hands together with some twine.

"What the fuck is this, Lex? What the hell do you want from me?" demanded Oliver, wincing as his hands were bound tightly together.

"Watch your mouth, boy!" hissed Galton, lashing out and backhanding Oliver across the face. Oliver's head whipped to the left under the force of the blow, but he soon recovered. Blood oozing from a cut to his lower lip, he turned his head back towards his captors, his eyes flashing with defiance.

Lex smiled, amused by Oliver's display of anger.

"What I want, Oliver, is for you to face justice – justice for all the crimes you and your freak friends have committed." He paused, his face darkening. "I think a trial is very appropriate, don't you? After all, it's more than you gave me when you locked me away at Bateman with no one but fish boy to keep me company."

"Damn you, Lex – damn you to hell!" said Oliver, his frustration boiling over. He took a step towards Lex, before the two guards grabbed him by the arms and held him back.

"Don't be a sore loser, Oliver - who knows, maybe the jury will find you innocent!" continued Lex, his smile returning. There was a murmur of approval at Lex's quip; everyone knew that there could be only one verdict in the trial of the Green Arrow.

"Bring him."

Lex turned, striding confidently from the room. The guards followed, marching Oliver between them; Galton and the doctor brought up the rear.

Oliver stealed himself. The endgame was near, and he knew he would need every ounce of mental and physical courage he could muster to face this final confrontation.

* * *

Lex swept into the room that was to serve as his makeshift court. In normal times it was a meeting room for the prison guards, a place where they relaxed, watched TV and had a few beers. Now it had been transformed; chairs had been arranged to resemble the layout of a courtroom, and a small platform erected, on which had been placed the governor's desk and leather chair. It was from here that Lex would preside over the show trial of his rival. He had planned everything down to the smallest detail, leaving nothing to chance; every moment in the drama that was about to unfold he had mapped out in his mind, crafting and recrafting it time and again until it was perfect. This was to be the final act in his dual with Oliver, and he wanted it to be an event worthy of such a moment of exquisite triumph.

As he strode towards the platform he noted with satisfaction that the cameras he had ordered had been put in place. Every minute of what lay ahead was to be recorded, preserved for posterity; in years to come he wanted to be able to relive this moment over and over again, to show his sons and his grandsons how he, Lex Luthor, had finally humbled the mighty Green Arrow.

Springing on to the platform he almost skipped to his seat, such was his eagerness to begin. Easing himself into his chair he paused, taking time to survey the scene. His heart was beating fast inside his chest, but he knew that he needed to stay calm. He had assigned himself a leading role in the drama that was about to unfold, and he knew that whatever his feelings of excitement and exhilaration about what was to come, he needed to play his part to perfection. As he looked around he saw that all was in place. Away to his left stood the cage that he had specially erected to hold the accused; in its center stood a metal pole, which stretched from the floor to its top. To his right stood another structure specially made for the occasion; a witness box, from where the evidence that would condemn Oliver would be given. Next to this sat the jury, who were already in place. Lex smiled. This was no ordinary jury; with Galton's help he had found twelve of the most vicious of Nemesis's inmates, killers the majority of whom had been put behind bars by either the Green Arrow or one his team. Oliver didn't stand a chance; with these men deciding his fate, the verdict was guaranteed.

All was ready; it was time to begin.

"The court will come to order," said Lex, banging his gavel on the desk. A hush fell over the room, the jury and the mixture of prison guards and LuthorCorp employees who had come to watch turning towards Lex. They knew their parts in what was to come, and, like Lex, they were eager to begin.

Lex looked across at the overweight man who stood hunched over a desk to the side of the platform. He was wearing a brightly colored but ill fitting suit, an incongruous sight amidst the austere greys and browns of Nemesis.

"Mr Schott, is the prosecution ready to make its case?"

Winslow Schott turned, knocking some papers onto the floor as he did so. He was sweating profusely, so much so that his hair appeared soaked with perspiration.

"I am ready, Mr Luthor," he said, fumbling on the floor to retrieve his notes.

Lex frowned. Having Schott, one of Oliver's greatest enemies, make the case for the prosecution had appealed to his sense of the theatrical; now, seeing him scrabbling around after pieces of paper, he was beginning to have his doubts. Still, it was too late to change things now, and he would just have to hope that Schott had learnt his lines thoroughly.

"Bring in the prisoner!" ordered Lex, his voice filling the room.

All eyes turned towards the door. There was a moment's pause, before Oliver appeared, flanked by the two guards who still held him firmly by the arms. He visibly straightened as he entered the room, clearly conscious that he was the center of attention and determined to show no sign of fear, whatever he felt inside. Galton was waiting for him at the door to the cage, and not a sound was heard as he was led inside. Oliver offered no resistance as first the twine that bound his wrists together was removed, before his arms were tied securely behind the metal pole at the center of the cage. He saw Lex on the platform, the men of the so called "jury," Schott, barely able to contain his excitement. Lex had indeed gone to a lot of trouble, but there was one flaw in his plan, a flaw Oliver intended to exploit to the full. This game depended on everyone playing their part, and he was determined to do anything but.

"Mr Schott, read out the charges," ordered Lex.

Schott stepped forward, walking over to the cage. He stared at Oliver for a moment, his eyes so wide it looked as if they would pop out of his head. He seemed mesmerised by the sight of his old foe, as if he couldn't quite believe that it was really him. Oliver met his gaze, calm and focused; he was not afraid of the madman who stood before him, even if he did now have the power of LuthorCorp behind him.

"Mr Schott - the charges."

Lex's voice appeared to snap the other man back to reality. He turned with a flourish towards the jury, brandishing a piece of paper high above his head.

"Members of the jury!" he began, his voice booming across the room. "This man, Oliver Queen, is charged with the most heinous of crimes. Assuming the identity of the so-called Green Arrow, this vigilante has subjected the city of Metropolis to a reign of terror the like of which no American city has ever known! Recruiting a band of super-powered freaks, he is guilty of kidnapping, robbery, extortion and murder on a massive scale. He is a terrorist, gentlemen – a terrorist who must suffer the full force of the law!"

Schott turned back towards Oliver, pointing dramatically in his direction. It was a parody of so many courtroom reconstructions seen on TV shows, and Schott's histrionics would have been funny had not everyone in the room knew the deadly seriousness of what was happening.

"You've heard the charges, Oliver," said Lex. "How do you plead – guilty, or not guilty?"

The room was filled with silence, with all eyes once more trained on Oliver.

"Sorry Lex, but I'm too old for games," he said eventually, surprising himself with the strength and clarity of his voice. "You and your pet fruit loop can play all you want, but if all you've got is this fifth rate Matlock wannabe then please do me a favour and kill me now, will you?"

Emboldened, Oliver stared through the bars of the cage, daring Lex to do his worst. He knew his adversary's penchant for theatrical confrontations; the two of them had been here many times before, and he knew full well that if he refused to cooperate then this whole charade would come grinding to a halt. He had no idea how Lex would respond to his show of defiance, but he certainly wasn't prepared for the sight which greeted him – a smiling Lex, as if he had been expecting Oliver to refuse to play ball...

"You must enter a plea, Oliver," he said calmly. "Perhaps this will help to concentrate your mind."

He looked to his right, nodding to one of his men who stood by a side door. He reached across and opened it. Oliver's gut tightened, as he was suddenly gripped by a terrible sense of foreboding...

Slade appeared, dragging something with him. For a second Oliver couldn't make it out, his view partially obscured by some of Luthor's men. Then he saw her – the petite figure of a woman, her hands tied behind her back. Dwarfed by Slade, she nevertheless seemed determined to resist her captor, wriggling furiously to free herself from his iron grip.

"No...Please God, no..." whispered Oliver, all color draining from his features. The woman was hooded, but it didn't matter – he recognised her immediately.

_Chloe!_

"Have you worked out who it is yet, Oliver?" asked Lex, revelling in the moment; he could see from Oliver's stricken expression that his latest surprise was working out exactly as he'd hoped. "Yes ... Yes, I can see you have. Let's welcome our guest from Metropolis, shall we? Slade, please do the honors."

Slade grabbed the hood and pulled it off. Oliver gasped. There, so vulnerable, so small, stood Chloe, wide-eyed and terrified. Her cheeks were stained with tears, and a thick, saliva soaked rag was tied tightly in her mouth. For a second or two her eyes darted this way and that, trying to make sense of what was happening. Then she saw Oliver. Two hearts broke at that moment, as they stared deep into each other's eyes. They needed no words; a million and one unspoken thoughts passed between them in an instant, as each understood what was happening. The unthinkable had happened – they had both fallen into Lex's clutches. He would now use her to hurt him, just as they had always feared in their worst nightmares – only this time, there would be no happy ending.

Slade pulled Chloe tight against his body, wrapping his arm around her neck. He looked across at Oliver, as if to make sure that he was watching. Then, in a gesture deliberately designed to rile the young hero, he buried his face in Chloe's hair. He breathed in deeply, closing his eyes for effect as he nuzzled his terrified prey. Oliver felt physically sick, but worse was to come; as Slade came up for air he looked straight across at him, before slowly, sickeningly, he licked his lips.

Oliver snapped. "Get your hands off her! I'll kill you for this – I swear, I will kill you if you hurt her!" He began to pull wildly at his bonds, thrashing this way and that in a desperate attempt to free himself. Reason told him it was hopeless, and that he was playing straight into Lex's hands, but at that moment all he could think of was to save Chloe from the arms of the monster who now held her in his thrall.

Lex and Slade exchanged glances. Slade's little display with Chloe had been anything but spontaneous, and both men smiled as they watched Oliver's increasingly frantic attempts to break free from his bonds. Lex had played his ace, and it had worked like a dream; the legendary stoicism of the Green Arrow, shattered by the appearance of the woman he loved.

Lex allowed Oliver to struggle for almost a minute, enjoying the spectacle until the young hero began to tire. He then signalled to Galton, who stood just behind Oliver in the cage. Galton stepped forward, delivering a crippling blow to Oliver's gut which finally brought his show of resistance to an end. Doubled over in pain, Oliver was left panting for breath, his dignity in pieces.

"So, Oliver, what's your plea – guilty or not guilty?" asked Luthor, his cool demeanour in stark contrast to the agonies that his prisoner had just endured.

Oliver did not reply. He continued staring at the floor, unable to take in the enormity of what was happening. He was ready for death, but to see Chloe like that – it was a horror beyond imagination.

Galton grabbed him by the hair and hauled him upright, slamming his head against the steel pole.

"You were asked a question, boy!" he hissed. "Answer him, damnit!"

"Fuck you!" whispered Oliver, before turning towards Lex. "Do you hear me, Lex? FUCK YOU!"

"Mr Queen has refused to enter a plea," said Lex, ignoring Oliver's outburst. "In the interests of justice a Not Guilty plea will be entered on his behalf. Mr Galton, I will not have this courtroom disrupted by any more outbursts – silence the prisoner."

Galton pulled a rag from his pocket. Knowing what was coming, Oliver tried to resist, but another swift blow to his gut quickly forced him to obey. Brutally Galton stuffed the rag into his mouth. Oliver tried to spit it out, but the other man was too quick for him; taking a roll of duct tape he wrapped it two or three times around Oliver's head, gagging him so tightly his cheeks bulged over the top edge of the tape.

"Not such a smart mouth now, are you leather boy?" hissed Galton, grabbing Oliver beneath the chin and slamming his head against the pole for a second time. Oliver's eyes blazed with fury, but it was no use. His last remaining weapon, the power of his words, had been taken from him; now he could be no more than an impotent spectator as Luthor's deadly game moved inexorably towards its conclusion.

"Mr Schott, please call your first witness."

"I call Tony Baldini."

A large, thick set man stepped forward and walked towards the witness stand. He took the oath, before Schott began working his way through the list of questions that Lex had approved hours earlier. Baldini's testimony was a pack of lies, a gross distortion of the truth which painted Oliver's alter ego as a killer and a thief, a man who framed the innocent and who had imposed a reign of terror on the streets of Metropolis. His evidence, however, went unchallenged, as in Lex's courtroom there was no time allocated for Oliver's defence to cross examine the witness; in fact, there was no defence at all. This was justice the Luthor way, where the script had been agreed in advance, and the verdict was merely a formality.

Baldini was just the first of fifteen or so witnesses who stood up to testify against the so-called "crimes" of the Green Arrow. Oliver couldn't be sure of the exact number; in fact, he couldn't be sure of anything that happened during those two hours in which Schott made his case to the jury. He didn't listen to a word of what was said, but instead stared straight at Chloe the entire time, apparently totally unaware of all that was happening around him. She stared back at him, and not once did their eyes wander. It was as if they knew that there time was limited, and that, despite the distance the separated them, they wanted to share these moments together, precious moments that might very well be their last. Oliver didn't believe in telepathy, but he felt convinced that he could hear her thoughts, and that she could hear his – that she knew he was telling her he loved her, and that she had made him the happiest man on earth. Amidst the tragedy of their plight, they were as one – so in love that nothing, not even death, could separate them.

"Mr Schott, does the prosecution have any more witnesses?" asked Lex, as the last of the Green Arrow's "victims" stepped down from the witness stand. He already knew the answer, as what was to come was to be the final coup de grace in his grand piece of theater.

"We have one more witness, Mr Luthor," announced Schott sonorously, affecting an air of the upmost gravity. "Testimony from a man who more than most can gave us an insight into the dark heart of the accused."

He paused, allowing the sense of expectation to build.

"Mr Luthor, the prosecution calls Bart Allen."

There was almost an audible intake of breath around the room as Bart's name was announced, and all eyes turned towards the door, including those of Chloe and Oliver. Both knew to their cost how Lex had turned their former friend against them; it just remained to be seen what part he was to play in this twisted game.

Bart sauntered through the door, unfazed to find himself the center of attention. He walked confidently to the stand, and there was almost a swagger in his step as he took up his position. He glanced over in Oliver's direction, his lip curling in a malicious smile as he saw his old boss tied up and gagged. A shiver ran down Oliver's spine as he sensed that Lex's drama was about to reach its climax.

"You are Bart Allen, also known as Impulse?" asked Schott.

"That's me," replied Bart, shoving his hands in the pockets of his hoodie as he ostentatiously chewed a piece of gum.

"And how do you know the accused?"

"He recruited me to his team – said if I joined him I'd make millions."

"And why's that?"

"Said we'd rule the city – waste the competition and then we'd clean up."

Oliver's eyes widened. He grunted into his gag, trying to object to the lies that Bart was telling. It was no good; Galton backhanded him round the face, before again smashing his skull against the metal pole to which he was shackled.

Ignoring what was going on behind him, Schott pressed on. "And exactly how did the accused say you were to "waste" the competition?"

"Whack them – you know, kill them," replied Bart casually, glancing across at Oliver. "He said that with our abilities we could do whatever we wanted. Cops, cons, anyone who got in our way – he said we should kill all of them. Told me that the little people didn't count – that's what he called them, "the little people" – and that nothing beat the buzz of killing a man. The guy's sick – a real psycho."

"A real psycho!" repeated Schott triumphantly, whirling round to face the jury. "Gentlemen, surely now you can be in no doubt as to the guilt of the accused! From the mouth of one of his own team he is condemned – Queen planned his reign of terror, revelled in the death and destruction he wrought upon the innocent people of Metropolis! We demand that he faces the full force of the law – Mr Luthor, the prosecution rests!"

Schott almost threw himself down into his chair, overcome by the power of his own rhetoric.

"Mr Allen, you may step down," said Lex. Bart casually stepped away from the witness stand, taking up a position with some of the guards who had been eagerly following the court's proceedings. Again he looked across at Oliver, who stared back, his eyes flaming with anger; the teenager grinned, before blowing him a kiss.

"Gentlemen of the jury, you have now heard the prosecution's case. As there are no witnesses for the defence we will move directly to judgement. Are you ready to deliver your verdict?"

The jury exchanged glances. They nodded to each other; they knew their role, and saw no point in delaying the inevitable.

"We have, Mr Luthor," said the man sitting nearest the platform.

"On the charges of kidnapping, extortion, robbery and murder, do you find the accused, Oliver Jonas Queen, guilty or not guilty?"

"Guilty."

The court erupted. There was cheering and applause, as if Oliver was indeed guilty of the crimes of which he was accused, and not the victim of a grotesque travesty of justice.

Bringing his gavel down hard on his desk, Lex called his kangaroo court to order. "Mr Galton, bring the accused forward for sentencing."

Galton untied Oliver's hands from behind the pole, before swiftly retying them behind his back. Grabbing him by the neck, he then dragged Oliver from the cage, pushing him into the center of the room. Dazed and helpless, Oliver barely had time to exchange glances with Chloe before two guards forced him to his knees in front of Lex's platform.

Seconds passed, the silence broken only by Oliver's labored breathing and Chloe's sobs. Oliver stared at the floor, trying to steal himself for what was to come.

Slowly, Lex got up from his seat and walked around to the front of his desk. He felt exultant, high on the taste of absolute victory over the man in whose shadow he had walked since their days together at Excelsior. Staring down at the leather clad figure who now knelt before him, he hesitated. He had practised these lines a million times in his head, rehearsing them over and over so that every word, every syllable, would be pitch perfect. This was the moment he had been waiting for – it had to be right.

"Look at me, Oliver."

Oliver didn't move, but continued to stare downwards at the floor.

"Look at me."

Galton grabbed Oliver by the hair and yanked his head upwards. The two great rivals stared at each other, one in victory, the other in defeat.

"Oliver Queen, you have been found guilty of the most heinous of crimes," began Lex, his heart thumping furiously in his chest. He needed to hold his voice steady, to not allow his nerves to get the better of him...

"Justice demands that you face the full force of the law, so I have no hesitation in imposing the severest of penalties." He paused, searching Oliver's eyes for any sign of fear. There was none; just the sparkle of defiance, as if he were daring Lex to say the words that they both knew must come next.

Lex swallowed hard – it was time.

"Oliver Queen – I sentence you to death."

* * *

Will Lex do it - will he execute our hero? Or will Ollie cheat death once more? No clues - just a promise that the next chapter WILL see the full Chlollie reunion so many of you have been waiting so patiently for.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter - it's longer than normal, but once I started writing it the ideas just kept coming! Thanks for reading, and a special thanks to those of you who reviewed the last chapter - to know you guys are still out there means so much! Please do post some feedback if you can - it really does inspire and motivate me. All being well, the next chapter should be up some time next week - trust me, you will not want to miss it!


	42. Chapter 42: Goodbyes

**Chapter Forty-Two: Goodbyes**

Oliver sat on the cold, hard floor of the cell, staring blankly into space. They'd brought him here about half an hour earlier, removing his gag and untying his hands before throwing him inside and slamming the heavy steel door shut. After the drama of Lex's courtroom, the cell seemed almost eerily quiet, the silence disturbed only by the occasional sound of footsteps from the corridor outside.

In the past Oliver would have searched for a means of escape. He would have scanned the room, looking for a potential weapon; examined the lock, trying to identify its weakness. But that Oliver belonged to a different time, a time when the Green Arrow seemed invincible. Now it was different; now Oliver knew he was beat. It still didn't quite seem real to him. He was the good guy, the hero, and still something within him couldn't quite accept that this was really happening, that Lex had really won. How could evil win? It wasn't like this in the comic books, in the movies – the hero always came out on top, even when the odds appeared impossible. But this time there was to be no last minute reprieve, no miraculous escape. His fate was sealed:

He was going to die.

He didn't fear death. That surprised him; despite the supreme confidence of his alter-ego, he'd always worried that at the last he would be afraid. The fact that at any minute the door to the cell might swing open and he might be led away to his execution was something that he viewed with complete equanimity. Perhaps it was all the mental and physical abuse that he had endured, but he saw his end as a form of release. He would meet death with courage and dignity, he knew that; he would not panic or struggle, but die like the hero he had always wanted to be. No, his personal fate was set, and there was nothing he could do to change it. It was not the fact of his own death which troubled him – it was the overwhelming feeling that he had failed those he loved, those who had trusted him, looked up to him.

The guys were gone. Lex was right, of course – he'd brought them into this, drawn them into his struggle with LuthorCorp and 33.1. If he hadn't recruited them they'd be free men right now, with the whole of their lives stretching before them. Instead they were prisoners – or worse. He should have done more to protect them, to shield them from the wrath of the psychopath who now held their lives in his hands. And then there was Chloe – dear God, Chloe! Seeing Slade touch her, the terror in her eyes – an eternity of torture would be as nothing compared to the knowledge that she was in the hands of that monster. What would he do to her – what would Lex do to her? The thoughts that filled his head, the images... he could not bear it! It was his fault she was here; he had made her his Watchtower, drawn her into his world. She had been safe with Clark, but now...

Voices in the corridor. Awkwardly Oliver dragged himself to his feet, just as the door to the cell swung open. He felt himself tense. Was this it – was it time?

Two LuthorCorp guards stepped inside the cell, each carrying a gun which they trained on Oliver. Lex followed, taking a couple of steps forward so that he stood face to face with his defeated rival.

"So how is the condemned man – ready to die, Oliver?" asked Lex. He appeared wholly at ease, like a man who knew that he was in complete control.

"Where's Chloe? What have you done with her?" demanded Oliver, edging slightly towards the other man; the guards responded, thrusting their guns towards Oliver in a warning to stay back.

"Oliver, Oliver!" said Lex, casually holding up his hand to restrain his men. "Still trying to play the selfless hero, eh? The act's a little tired, I have to tell you."

"If you've hurt her..."

Lex laughed. "You'll what? Get your freaks to pay me a visit after you've gone? Oh, sorry, I forgot – all your freaks are my prisoners, aren't they? The Green Arrow's all-conquering Justice League, all fucked up – and they were such good boys, too! Such a waste, but still – I'm sure my scientists will learn a lot from them in the weeks and months to come."

"Lex..."

"In fact that brings me to one of the reasons why I'm here," continued Lex. He enjoyed playing with Oliver, goading him and getting under his skin; it was a game he was going to miss. "I wanted to apologise – I had hoped another of your old friends was going to join us today, but my team refused to allow him to travel."

Lex paused, watching the look of confusion and alarm on Oliver's face.

"You didn't think Clark would let his precious Chloe fall into the hands of the big bad Lex, did you? Still, that meteor rock soon brought him to heel. What's it called again – kryptonite?"

Lex spoke so casually, but his words fell like a hammer blow on his stricken prisoner. Oliver felt sick. Lex knew – he knew about Clark! Schott's appearance should have warned him; after all, Winslow knew the truth about Clark's real identity, and there was no reason for him not to share this with the man who had set him free. Chloe's guardian – the man who might have saved her from whatever Luthor had in store – was himself now a prisoner.

"No... No, you're lying," whispered Oliver, clearly stunned by Lex's latest revelation.

"I'm not lying, Oliver –why would I? No, Clark is as we speak all tucked up safe and sound in one of LuthorCorp's most secure facilities. I'm looking forward to learning all about him – it's not every day you get to experiment on an alien from another planet."

Overcome with despair and frustration, Oliver snapped. He lunged at Lex, but the other man was too quick for him. Lex neatly sidestepped the attack, making way for his guards to grab Oliver and pinion his arms behind his back.

"Temper, temper," said Lex, smiling as he watched Oliver struggle against his captors' grip. "Don't worry about Clark, Oliver – or perhaps we should call him Kal El?"

"You've got me, Lex – isn't that enough?" implored Oliver desperately, knowing as he spoke that any appeal for mercy on behalf of his friends was bound to fail. "Please, let them go – kill me, but let them go."

Again Lex smiled – a smile of pure evil. Without warning his arm shot out, and he grabbed Oliver by the face, his fingernails clawing deep into the young hero's cheeks so that his lips bulged outwards in a grotesque travesty of a kiss.

"Kill you, Oliver?" he purred venomously, his eyes flashing with the thrill of a predator waiting to strike. "Oh, I'm going to kill you – that's a pleasure I've reserved all to myself. But don't think I'm going to spare your friends. They must all pay for what they've done. The freaks, Clark, Chloe - all of them must pay. They chose the wrong side, you see – they chose your side, the _losing _side. But they will learn, just as you have learnt, Oliver – no one crosses Lex Luthor!"

Lex spoke so quietly he was almost whispering, but as Oliver stared into those hate filled eyes he understood. Lex's megalomania was complete. He wasn't just evil – he was insane.

There was silence for a moment, the two men locked in a final, deadly embrace. Oliver half expected Lex to pull out a knife and stab him through the heart there and then, but instead he let go of his grip, stepping back and recovering himself.

"Now, never let it be said I'm not a generous man," he continued, resuming his playful tone as if the events of the previous thirty seconds had not happened. "A condemned man should always be granted one wish, and I've taken the liberty of anticipating what yours might be. Galton, bring her in."

Oliver's eyes moved to the doorway. He gasped; there, held fast by Galton, stood Chloe.

Lex looked from Oliver to Chloe. Reuniting the two lovers was a twist of which he was particularly proud, and the look in their eyes told him that it was going to work out exactly as he had planned.

"Well, we'll leave you two love birds to it," he said briskly, gesturing for his men to leave the cell. "You've got one minute to say your goodbyes, Oliver – we'll be waiting."

Lex stepped outside the cell, closing the door behind him and leaving Chloe and Oliver alone together. Neither spoke; overwhelmed by the enormity of the moment, they could not find the words. So much had happened, so many terrible things, that the memory of the times they'd shared together seemed almost unreal. But those times _had_ been real, and now, as they stood staring at each other in that tiny cell, a thousand and one thoughts and emotions flashed through their minds, uniting them once more. Like some force of nature, each could feel the power of their love for each other welling up from deep within themselves. All conquering, all consuming, it seemed to drive away all the hate, all the evil, all the hopelessness, until only it remained, perfect and untarnished.

"Oliver..." began Chloe, her voice frail and choked with emotion. She said no more; silently Oliver stepped forward and scooped her up in his arms, enveloping her in an embrace of indescribable tenderness. She buried her head in his chest, the familiar scent of his leathers filling her senses as the tears began to run silently down her cheeks. Cupping her head gently in one hand, Oliver leaned down and gently kissed her hair, just as he'd done so many times before.

"I can't lose you, Oliver... I can't..."

"Hey, ssssshhhhh," interrupted Oliver. She was starting to sob now, the knowledge that this was to be their last time together proving too much. His heart swelled so much he thought it would burst. She seemed so fragile, so scared – he wanted more than anything to protect her, to tell her it was going to be alright.

"It's going to be okay, I promise," he continued, trying his best to calm her. "We love each other, remember? No one can take that away from us – no one."

Chloe lifted her head, her tear stained eyes staring up at him. "Why is this happening to us? What have we done to deserve this?"

Seeing her so bereft, so shattered, was almost more than he could bear. He wanted to cry too, but he fought back the tears; he needed to be strong, for both their sakes.

"I can't live without you," she said, becoming more agitated. "I'll kill myself – if Lex takes you from me, I swear, I'll kill myself!"

"Stop that," said Oliver firmly, placing his hands on her cheeks and holding her face directly in front of his own. Possessed with a sudden sense of urgency, he wanted to imbue her with strength, give her the will to carry on without him. "Stop that, you hear me? Stay alive, Chloe – promise me, whatever happens, you'll stay alive. Find Clark, find the others – do whatever it takes to save them. Promise me you'll live – promise me!"

"I promise," she whispered.

"I love you, Chloe – I love you so much!"

They kissed, and for a few, precious seconds the nightmare that had consumed them melted away. Lex, the cell, the separation that now could be only seconds away – it all disappeared. They were lost in each other, soul mates sharing the bliss of being as one. They believed at that moment that their love was the greatest the world had ever known, that it was a love that could stand any trial, any test. Nothing could break their bond – not even death.

"And so the star-crossed lovers share a final embrace."

Lex stood in the doorway, Galton at his side.

"Touching, isn't it?" he continued, watching as Oliver and Chloe continued to kiss. "You know something, Mr Galton? I think I may very well cry."

Galton smirked; Lex's sick sense of humour was something he could appreciate.

"Still, the wheels of justice cannot be denied! Mr Queen has an appointment, and I'd hate for him to be late – time to bring this little melodrama to an end, I think."

Lex nodded at Galton, before stepping to one side. The other man issued a couple of curt commands, and suddenly the cell was filled with LuthorCorp guards. Two of them grabbed Chloe and tore her from Oliver's arms. She screamed, her raw emotion echoing around the walls of the tiny cell. She stretched out her arms towards Oliver, trying desperately to touch him just one last time. He responded, but before he could reach her three guards grabbed him and pulled him back towards the far wall.

"Oliver, I love you!" she cried, sobbing hysterically as they dragged her from the cell.

"I love you, Chloe – always remember that I love you!" he replied, pulling against his captors' grip as she disappeared from view.

"Bravo – bravo!" exclaimed Lex, clapping as if he were applauding some theatrical performance. "Heartbreaking – truly heartbreaking! I always knew you loved her, Oliver, but really – the two of you are quite the Romeo and Juliet, aren't you?"

"Let her go, Lex. You've got me, damnit – let her go!"

"We've been through this, Oliver," replied Lex, casually taking the two or three steps needed to bring him in front of his captive once more. "Chloe can't go free. She must be punished – just like all the others. But I will make you one promise – I won't kill her. Instead I think I'll put her through my re-education program – after all, it's worked wonders with your friend Bart, hasn't it?"

Oliver snarled at Lex, pulling hopelessly against the strong grip of the guards who held him fast.

"You bastard – you sick, twisted bastard!"

Lex smiled, a model of self-control in the face of Oliver's outburst.

"You know it's a real shame you never got those anger issues sorted out, Oliver – such an unpleasant character trait."

"Luthor…."

"No more talking, Oliver," interrupted Lex. "It's time for you to die."

* * *

Oliver shuffled forwards, the heavy steel shackles that manacled his ankles together making it impossible to progress at anything other than a crawling pace. His hands were also shackled, a thick chain attaching the cuffs to his leg irons. Rarely had his status as a prisoner been made so brutally clear, not that you would know it to look at his face; his features fixed in a look of flint-like resolution, he held his head high, keeping his eyes firmly on the end of the long hall along which he was now taking his final walk. It was the main hall of the Nemesis facility, the same hall through which he had been forced to run the gauntlet by Galton when he'd first arrived. That seemed like an eternity ago, a time when, despite everything, he'd still had hope. That hope was gone now, but one thing remained the same – his absolute determination to stay strong, to meet whatever fate had in store for him like a true hero.

It was the end, but still Lex's sense of drama meant that everything was being carefully stage managed. The shackles were a part of that – an essential prop, designed to emphasise that Oliver, as in some movie, was indeed a "dead man walking." So too was the orange jumpsuit. Forcing Oliver to wear his costume in Nemesis had served its purpose – it had marked him out, made him an easy target. Now, however, things were different. Oliver was to die a common criminal, forced to exchange the uniform of the fearless vigilante with the uniform of the condemned convict. Lex had stripped him of his heroic pretensions, quite literally; the leathers of the Green Arrow would be his trophy, something to have framed and put on display back in the Luthor mansion.

Countless pairs of eyes watched him as he shuffled forward. Prisoners in their cells, guards lining the route – all wanted to be there, to see the mighty Green Arrow as he was led to his death. There was no shouting, no jeering; too many men had died during the riot for the remaining cons to risk the wrath of their jailers. But still Oliver could feel their hate, as well as the sneering fascination of the guards. Surrounded by his enemies, he was to die alone – friendless, a failure. And all the time Lex's cameras whirred, recording every second of Oliver's last journey. How many times would he play these moments back to himself in the months and years to come? The sickest of home movies, to preserve for all time the final triumph of Lex Luthor over the House of Queen.

At last the long journey was over, as Oliver's guards brought him to a halt in front of a heavy steel door. Galton stepped forward, punching a code into a keypad. The door swung open; taking a deep breath, Oliver stepped inside.

The room was small but brightly lit, like something you'd find in a hospital. At its center was a gurney, tilted upwards so that it was almost vertical. Straps were attached to it, and nearby were some monitors and an array of wires and tubes. Strangely, Oliver felt relieved. He'd feared the hangman's noose; in comparison death by lethal injection seemed almost merciful.

Lex had been waiting for his arrival. He stepped forward, staring silently at Oliver for a moment. Oliver met his gaze, and the two men eyed each other for what both knew must be their final confrontation. Lex was the victor, but it was he who appeared the most uncomfortable. He seemed almost overwhelmed by his success, unable to find the words to match the moment. In contrast, Oliver stood proud and stoical, defying his captor to do his worst. His eyes sparkled with an inner strength and peace, before which Lex appeared small, inconsequential. Lex might have won, but at that moment the moral victor was Oliver.

It was Lex who spoke first.

"Prepare him."

Oliver was led over to the gurney. Under Galton's watchful eyes, the guards first removed his chains. They then pushed him up against the vertical frame, one of the men gripping Oliver by the throat as the other two began methodically to apply the restraints. First his arms and legs were strapped in place, before additional belts were tied across his thighs, abdomen and chest. Finally two smaller straps were tied around his neck and forehead, anchoring his skull securely to the gurney's headrest. The belts were thick, the edges of the leather cutting into Oliver's skin as each was pulled tightly into position. In under a minute the work was done; their prisoner rendered completely immobile, the men stood back, allowing Lex once more to take the stage.

"And so here we are, Oliver – at last, it's time for you to face justice. Just one thing missing – the witnesses. Every execution has its witnesses, doesn't it? I think you might recognise one or two of ours."

He turned towards the far wall, which appeared to be made of some of sort heavily tinted glass. Lex nodded, as if giving a signal to someone on the far side, and suddenly the darkness disappeared. The glass was revealed to be a window, the other side of which stood an assortment of onlookers.

Oliver gasped; there, held securely by some of Lex's guards, stood not only Chloe, but also Roy. Both were tied and gagged; both stared at him, their eyes wide and desperate. Roy struggled against his captors' grip, but Chloe stood motionless, her face stricken with grief and fear.

"Friends old and new, come to bid you a fond farewell," said Lex, his confidence returning as he watched the color drain from Oliver's face; he knew his adversary's weakness, and once again he had played the card to perfection.

"Shame you never got chance to train the boy. Brave, good looking, stupid – he would have made a perfect addition to your team," he continued, wandering over towards the window and looking at Roy through the glass. "Still, I know that Mr Galton will put him back on the straight and narrow when we've gone – his methods, as you know, can be quite persuasive."

"Lex, don't do this – please, I'm begging you. Don't….."

"Begging me!" interrupted Lex. "Did you hear that, Mr Galton? The great Green Arrow, _begging _me? Please, Oliver, you're embarrassing yourself!"

"Chloe, I love you!" shouted Oliver, looking through the glass at his lover and pulling with all his might against the straps which held him. "I love yo…."

Oliver didn't get chance to finish, his words cut off by a thick leather muzzle which Galton clamped down over his mouth. Oliver tried to resist, but it was hopeless; within seconds the muzzle had been tied in place, rendering him silent for the last time.

"There – that's better!" said Lex, standing a foot or so from where Oliver lay, bound and helpless. "You always did talk too much, Oliver. Even when we were at Excelsior – talk, talk, talk. How many times did that silver tongue of yours get you out of trouble, I wonder? Well not today, Oliver – not today."

Oliver grunted furiously, his words muffled by the gag.

"Take one last look, Oliver," said Lex, looking across at Chloe. "So beautiful – so pure! You would have made such a sweet couple."

He paused. He'd saved the best until last – he wanted to savour the moment.

"You know how you said you loved Chloe back in the cell, how you said you'd never forget her?" whispered Lex, leaning in so that he was whispering just inches from Oliver's ear. "All very romantic, wasn't it? But let me tell you something, Oliver – she _will _forget you. After my scientists have finished working on her, she won't remember you even existed. Do you like that, Oliver? Do you like the fact that when she sees your face in a magazine in a couple of months' time you'll just be some pretty boy billionaire who turned bad?"

Lex had wanted this final revelation to devastate his foe, and he was not to be disappointed. Oliver's eyes widened, the full enormity of what he'd heard leaving him reeling. Again he pulled desperately at his bonds, but they would not budge. He shouted into his gag, but all that came out were muffled cries; tears of rage and impotence began to well up in his eyes, tears he struggled to hold back.

"Shout all you want, Oliver. The glass is soundproof – she can't hear a thing," said Lex cruelly, his lip curling in contempt. "Now lets' finish this, shall we?"

He pressed a button on the side of the gurney. A motor sprang to life, and Oliver felt himself tilting slowly backwards. Desperately he looked at Chloe, trying to keep sight of her for as long as possible. Their eyes met, just for a split second – and then she was gone.

"Doctor, if you'd be so kind?"

Forced to stare at the ceiling, Oliver was aware of movement away to his left. Suddenly the familiar face of the doctor appeared over him. He appeared terrified; sweating profusely, his hands shook as he began to insert various lines into the exposed flesh of Oliver's forearm.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, unable to look Oliver in the eye. "I wish…."

"Don't be sorry, doctor," interrupted Lex. The doctor almost jumped out of his skin, shocked that he had been overheard and fearful of the consequences. "Your friend here is a criminal – he deserves to die. Now, tell me how these tubes work."

He looked at the spaghetti of tubes which sprang forth from the monitors, some attached to cylinders that were attached to the wall.

"That one will anaesthetise him," whispered the doctor, nodding towards a green tube. "The second one delivers the fatal dose – it normally takes about two minutes."

Lex smiled. "Well I think we can dispense with the first tube, don't you? I do hate waste."

The doctor's jaw dropped. "But… but without the anaesthetic….. the pain will be excruciating!"

"Yes…. I know," purred Lex. He leaned over Oliver, grinning malevolently. "You don't mind a bit of pain, do you Oliver – a tough hero like you?"

Oliver did not respond, but continued to stare straight upwards. He sensed that the end was close now; he was steeling himself, trying to put his mind in a place where he hoped he would be able to withstand the pain….

"You see that little light up there, Oliver?" said Lex, tilting his head upwards and following Oliver's gaze towards the ceiling. "That's a camera. I want to capture every excruciating second of your death, so that I'll be able to relive this moment over and over again."

He paused, looking down at the young hero who lay strapped down and helpless before him. Theirs was a rivalry that stretched back years, from their time together at Excelsior to the life and death struggle between the two of them which was now reaching its climax. All those years of feeling inferior, of living in the shadow of the golden boy who could do no wrong. He could still recall the resentment and frustration he'd felt at Excelsior; how time and again his achievements had been overlooked in favour of the Academy's star student, Oliver Queen. It was Oliver who'd had the friends, the looks, the girls; he was the one who'd excelled at everything, be it on the sports field or in the exam hall. For years he'd been forced to live in Oliver's shadow, always comparing himself with his rival and finding himself wanting. It hadn't stopped when they left the Academy; as CEOs of their respective business empires, in deal after deal it always seemed as if Queen Industries came out ahead. And then, finally, his titanic struggle with Oliver's alter ego, the Green Arrow. How many times had Queen and his team of freaks beaten him? How many millions of dollars had he lost in the 33.1 program due the activities of this so-called "Justice League"? Lex's loathing of Oliver had festered for years before he learnt the truth about his double life, but from the moment he'd pulled back that hood that loathing had turned to pure hatred. Destroying this man had become his obsession, and now, after so many months of planning, he had done it. Oliver's friends, his fortune, his reputation, even the woman he loved – he'd taken them all. The man who'd had everything, reduced to nothing – had there ever been a revenge so complete, so devastating, so brilliant?

"So I guess this it, Oliver – time to say goodbye," he said quietly, his eyes sparkling with the exhilaration of knowing that now, at last, the moment had come. "No eleventh hour rescue, no last minute reprieve. Part of me will miss this game we've been playing – there's nothing quite like the thrill of the chase, is there? But I'll survive, Oliver – I'll survive. It was always going to end like this, of course. Just as my father killed your parents, so I will kill you – the final triumph of the Luthors over the Queens. This is destiny, Oliver – destiny!"

He stepped back. Glancing across at the window to confirm that Chloe was still watching, he then moved over to the panel which controlled the flow of chemicals down the tubes.

"This one?" he asked, pointing at a red button.

The doctor nodded.

Lex hesitated once more, his finger hovering over the button. The air was heavy with expectation, all who were watching sensing that the time had come. He looked at the young man he was about to kill, lying still on the gurney…

"Goodbye, Oliver," he said simply.

His finger pressed down firmly on the button….

Oliver heard the motor spring into life. As every muscle in his body tensed he offered up a silent prayer, and waited. Within seconds he could feel the poison entering his system. Quickly, silently, it moved up his arm and across his chest, before flooding into his head, his legs, until every inch of his body was in its grip. The pain was excruciating. He thought he knew what it was like to suffer, thought he'd experienced every physical torment a man could endure. Nothing, however, came close to the agonies that now consumed him. Every sinew, every fiber, every atom of his being felt as if it was on fire. His survival instinct took over. He started to pull at his bonds, twisting this way and that; he needed to escape the pain, that crippling, unrelenting pain. He wanted to be strong, to be the hero, but he couldn't. The poison was too powerful, eating away at him inside like some invisible, ravenous beast. Seized by terror, he screamed; a gut wrenching, visceral sound, even through the gag it sounded like it had come straight from the depths of hell itself.

Lex stood watching a few feet away, transfixed. He'd seen men die before, of course – even killed one or two with his own bare hands. But they hadn't mattered; collateral damage, the price that had to be paid for his own success. Oliver was different – he_ did_ matter. For months now he'd wondered what he would feel at this moment. He'd expected to feel excited, exhilarated, and as he watched the young hero's body writhe and spasm against the restraints, as he listened to his agonised cries, he felt all of those things. But he felt something else, something he hadn't expected. He felt happy – deliriously, insanely happy. He, Lex Luthor, was overseeing the execution of the one man he hated more than anyone else in the world, and that made him feel happier than he'd ever felt in his entire life.

Oliver knew he was dying. He could feel himself slipping away, the crippling pain of seconds' earlier giving way to numbness as his body began to shut down. Images flashed through his mind, snapshots of his life returning to comfort him as the end approached. There were images of his parents, of the times they'd shared together before the crash. Then, suddenly, they were gone; he was transported back to their memorial service, the tears stinging his cheeks as he stood at the front of the church, orphaned and alone. There were images of Excelsior, of his time on the island, of the first time he donned the leathers of the Green Arrow…. the images kept coming, each more vivid but more fleeting than the last. The guys were there, Victor, Bart and AC; they were laughing, a memory of a time when they felt as if they could take on the world. And then there was Chloe – sweet, beautiful, pure, brave, generous Chloe! Her face filled his thoughts; she was smiling at him, telling him it was going to be alright…

_I love you, Chloe…_

Suddenly, dramatically, Oliver's body spasmed, every muscle stretched taut and straining against the belts that held him in place. It was as if he were being electrocuted, and for a few seconds time seemed to stand still. Everyone held their breath; friend and foe alike, they all knew this was it. Suddenly Oliver let out a terrible sound, a death rattle to chill even the hardest of hearts; then he slumped back onto the gurney, his body limp and lifeless.

For a good ten seconds no one moved, all who had witnessed Oliver's final moments overwhelmed by what they had seen. All that could be heard was the sound of the equipment fixed up to monitor Oliver's life signs, its single continuous note telling its own terrible truth.

It was Lex who recovered first.

"Doctor," he said coolly, apparently in complete control of his emotions. "Please confirm Mr Queen is dead."

The doctor stepped forward. He studied the monitor, before feeling for Oliver's pulse. After a few seconds he turned towards Lex, his face ashen; unable to speak, he slowly nodded his head.

"Say it, doctor," demanded Lex; he needed to hear it, so there could be no doubt.

The doctor swallowed hard.

"He's dead," he whispered, turning and looking at the grief stricken young woman who stood, wide-eyes and terrified, beyond the glass. He couldn't quite believe what he was saying; dumbstruck, he found himself repeating those two, devastating words:

"He's dead."

* * *

Lex trudged through the trees, the mud squelching beneath his boots. It was early spring, and the snow that had covered the land for months was at last in headlong retreat. Not that the weather had improved; it was blowing a gale, and the branches of the trees groaned and creaked as the wind whipped through them. The darkness added to the atmosphere, and Lex had only a flashlight and the moon to guide him to his destination. He'd chosen this location personally, having surveyed the area around Nemesis in great detail. Bleak and isolated, it was miles from anywhere; the perfect place to bury Oliver Queen.

"We're nearly there, sir – I can see some lights."

Galton was right; as Lex looked he could see five or six lights up ahead. He'd sent his men on earlier to prepare the grave. He had no interest in watching his men dig a hole in the middle of nowhere, but he did want to supervise the burial. Oliver had cheated death so many times, it was almost as if he wasn't really going to believe he was finally gone until he saw the earth being shovelled over his corpse. It was irrational, he knew that, but still he wanted to be there, to see it with his own eyes.

As they approached the men looked up. It was raining heavily, and they looked soaked to the skin. They stood around the hole they had dug, the soil piled up to one side. Away to the left, dimly lit by a light which had been set up on a tripod, was the large black plastic bag which contained Oliver's body.

"We're not ready yet, sir," said one of the men. "The ground is too hard – it's taking us twice as long to dig as we'd expected."

Lex stepped forward and inspected the hole. It was about three feet deep, half the depth it should have been.

"It's deep enough," he said. "Food for wolves, food for worms – let's get this done."

Relieved that Lex's decision meant an end to the digging, the men dropped their shovels and made their way over to the body bag. With difficulty, four of them dragged it over to the edge of the hole. They were about to roll it over when Lex gestured for them to stop. Squatting down, he took hold of the zip, before slowly pulling it back to reveal Oliver's face.

Lex stared for a few seconds, saying nothing. His eyes closed, Oliver appeared at peace, almost as if he were sleeping. His cares and torments seemed to have melted away like the snow; in death he appeared serene, even beautiful. Rain drops started to fall on his cold, lifeless skin, lending lustre to his fading complexion. Nature seemed to want him to revive, to spring back to life, and for a split second Lex thought he saw an eyelid flicker. It was a trick of the light, of course; Oliver was dead, and nothing could change that.

"Mr Luthor, if we want to catch the plane…."

"Yes, yes – of course," replied Lex, snapping back to reality. They were on a schedule, and with Chloe safely sedated and secured on his jet it was time to get back to Metropolis and civilisation. She was going to prove invaluable in assisting his team to learn more about Clark, and he was keen to begin.

He took one last look at Oliver, before decisively zipping up the bag. He stood, placing his foot on the fallen hero's corpse.

"Goodbye, Oliver," he whispered, before pushing against the dead weight of the body. The bag rolled forwards and fell into the hole, hitting the earth with a dull thud.

"Cover it," he ordered. He then turned and began to retrace his steps back along the path. He didn't once look back – there was no need to.

It was over, finished.

Oliver was dead; he, Lex Luthor, had won.

**THE END**

* * *

*Stunned Silence*

You didn't think I'd do it, did you? But I have - Ollie _is_ dead, and that is the end of the story. It was always my intention to take this story to places where the show and most fanfics rarely go, and I think you'll agree I've done that - for once there is no happy ending, only tragedy and the triumph of evil. I hope I managed to convey the intensity of those final scenes - they certainly played out pretty vividly in my mind.

Please don't hate me too much! If it's any comfort there is a sequel in my mind, which will take up directly where this story concludes. Its title? "Green Arrow: Resurrection." I'll let you draw your own conclusions...

Will I write it? Right now the answer to that is "probably." I've still got lots of ideas, but part of me is saying that it might be time to stop - the show's over, and I'm not sure whether I want to spend many, many hours writing another fic. I think the response of you guys will be the deciding factor - if enough of you tell me you want another one, then I'll write it!

Whatever happens, thanks for sticking with this story - it seems incredible, but I started this over a year ago! A massive, massive thankyou to all those of you who reviewed - without your support I would definitely have given up long ago. Please do post any final reviews - it is always great to hear what you think.

So I guess _this _is goodbye as well - at least for now...


End file.
